


The Next Time You Say Forever

by Thistlerose



Series: The Forever 'verse [3]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his ex-wife's death, McCoy is forced to leave the <i>Enterprise</i>  to look after his teenage daughter. Under normal circumstances, this would be the end of…whatever it is he has with Kirk that's more than friendship, but less than what he wants. But the universe has other intentions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to R_becca and Boosette for beta reading this story.

**2263**

As far as Jim Kirk was concerned, there were three constants in the universe: Vulcans would always outsmart him, Romulans would always try to fuck with him, and Doctor Leonard McCoy would always be there to patch him up when he staggered home, concussed and bleeding.

It was that third constant that meant the most to Jim, maybe because he'd known it the longest. For almost eight years – three at the Academy, the rest aboard the _Enterprise_ \- McCoy had kept his body in one piece. Or somehow managed to put all the pieces back together, if you wanted to be perfectly accurate. Just the knowledge that Bones was _there_ \- either with the away team or back on the _Enterprise_ \- scowling, thinking up stinging admonitions – kept Jim sane. Any time a mission went wrong, any time he found himself strapped down in some alien torture chamber or facing the wrong end of a disruptor, the thought would flash through his mind that _all I have to do is survive this, that's all, just get out of here with a fucking pulse_ and Bones would work out the details with his hyposprays and his firm, sure hands.

Maybe there were times when he took McCoy's presence for granted: sometimes missions went well, after all, and Jim reappeared on the transporter pad on his feet, all organs functioning properly, all blood in his body – where it belonged. And maybe there were times when he resented McCoy's cautious, somewhat cynical nature. Cautious, that was, when it came to Jim and the rest of the crew. He had learned the hard way that McCoy's own sense of self-preservation was approximately zero.

And then, of course, there was Spock. They made a good team, the three of them, despite the near-constant bickering between first officer and CMO. Over the years, Jim had grown so used to the squabbling that those rare occasions when they were both in agreement – whether it was on who should buy the next round of drinks or if they ought to trust a Klingon informant – actually sent shivers up his spine.

Jim thought of them as his best friends, truly the best friends he'd ever had in the thirty years he'd been alive, but when it came to matters of exploration and experimentation, Jim tended to side with Spock. He knew that it annoyed McCoy, but what the hell was he supposed to do? They had a mission, a duty. And if McCoy kept Jim alive and sane, Spock challenged him with his pragmatism, his alien (well, half-alien) perspective. Jim could never resist a challenge.

Still, Leonard McCoy was like air to Jim Kirk, like blood: utterly essential, just not something he thought about every minute of every day.

So when, with barely a warning, McCoy up and left, it really knocked Jim for a loop.

*

It was late, almost the end of beta shift, when McCoy came to see him in his quarters, PADD in hand. For a few long moments he simply wavered there in the doorway, and Jim's heart began to beat very quickly because even backlit by the lights in the corridor, he could tell that McCoy was ashen. His hair was a mess, like he'd been tearing at it or raking his fingers through it repeatedly. Jim set his own PADD down on the desk, the report he'd been writing for Starfleet forgotten.

 _Something bad's happened_ , he thought and a chill washed through him. Something really bad, like a death. But how was that even possible? There'd been no recent injuries or illnesses. The past week had been uncharacteristically boring, with no away missions, and no encounters with other ships.

"Tell me what happened," Jim said tautly. He gestured to the chair facing his desk. "Sit down and tell me what happened."

As McCoy moved unsteadily across the carpeted floor and the door closed behind him, Jim had a terrible thought: _What if the bad news originated a little closer to home – literally?_ Jim's mother now captained her own science vessel, and his brother, sister-in-law, and nephews lived on a research satellite orbiting Earth; their lives were not fraught with danger as his was, but that hardly meant that they were safe from harm. Still, if anything had happened to them or to Admiral Pike, who was the closest thing he'd ever had to a real father, Starfleet would have contacted him directly, not gone through his CMO.

McCoy had family on Earth; he had a young daughter. And now Jim realized, as McCoy set his PADD on the desk and slid it toward him, there was no sympathy in his expression, no compassion. His eyes avoided Jim's; his mouth was a flat line. Jim didn't know what that look meant, but the words _Please, not that,_ clawed in his belly, and his fingers moved numbly over the PADD, not quite grasping it.

"Tell me," he said again, his voice low.

"I'm taking a leave of absence from Starfleet," McCoy said tonelessly. "Effective – effective immediately. I need you to sign off on it."

Jim nodded and he tried to speak, but though his lips moved, the only sound he made was, "Juh—"

McCoy frowned at him for a moment, then he seemed to understand and his face actually went even whiter. "Joanna? No, oh Jesus, no. She's safe. She's – no, it's her mother. And stepfather. They were both killed in a shuttle crash last night. They were coming home from a weekend trip – or something. I don't know. Jo was spending the weekend with a friend. Good God, Jim." He reached across the desk, gripped Jim's shoulder, and gave him a little shake. "Look at you, you're practically gray. I'm the one Joanna's supposed to be giving heart attacks to."

"Worst-case scenario," Jim said weakly. "Always have to be thinking…"

"If something had happened to my daughter, d'you really think I'd be standing upright right now?"

"No. No, of course not. And God – I'm sorry. I know things weren't exactly amicable, but – I'm sorry." Jim reached up and covered the hand still resting on his shoulder. Looking McCoy in the eye, he said simply, "What can I do?"

"You can sign off on that request."

"I know. I will." It was really crazy, Jim thought, how easily the words came, how his voice sounded so steady. Other parts of him felt broken. _Bones is leaving._ He thought it again; it still seemed ludicrous. In what _universe_ was Bones not CMO on the _Enterprise_ , a part of Jim's daily life?

"Jo's fourteen," McCoy was saying, as if he thought Jim still needed convincing. "It's a fucked-up age. As you and I both know. And she just lost her mother and her stepfather. I haven't talked with her yet, but I know she's heartbroken. I won't speak ill of the – the dead. Whatever her flaws, Jocelyn did well by our daughter. And Roger was a better father to her than I ever was. I have to—"

"You have to go to her. Of course." _And don't talk about yourself like that,_ he also wanted to say, but he couldn't, not with his throat so full.

"I have to stay with her. I already talked with Starfleet. They were – understanding. The five-year mission's almost over. We'll be due leave at the end of it. I'm just taking it – early. I don't know how long I'll be away. Jo isn't even in high school. I promised Starfleet Medical I'd work on a textbook. Physiology of alien races. I'd been meaning to—"

"You're rambling," Jim interrupted softly.

"I know." McCoy's breath shook as he inhaled. Jim could actually hear it shake. "I just – need to concentrate on Joanna right now, and on getting to her as fast as I can. The _Hypatia's_ 's the closest ship in the Fleet right now, and they're heading back toward Earth."

"Don't be stupid. We'll take you."

"No. You're already en route to Mirach IV, to pick up the ambassador."

 _You're, not we're. Oh, shit._

Knowing how McCoy would respond, Jim said, "The hell with the ambassador. You think I'd hand you over to just anybody—"

"Dammit, Jim." Letting go of his shoulder, he said, "That's your mother's ship."

"Yeah."

"Don't be cute, Jim. Please. Do not try to be cute right now."

"I'm not," he protested, which was such a blatant lie that he had to shrug. "Fine. I'll arrange it. At least you'll be with a Kirk until you get back to Earth. What else can I do?"

"The crew's medical records are in order. I want Chapel in charge of sickbay, at least until you get someone with more experience. She may not be a doctor, but dammit, there's no one I trust more, at least when it comes to running things. I haven't talked to her, but I will before I leave."

"Bones." Jim started to reach for him, but instead let his hand fall back to his side. Half a dozen thoughts crowded in his brain. Each one shamed him with its selfishness, and none of them meant anything against the fact that, back on Earth, a young girl whom he'd never met needed her father. "What can _I_ do?" It sounded like a plea, and he supposed that that was what it was.

"Tell the rest of the crew. I can't. I – don't want to make a big deal."

"Of course. What else?"

McCoy said, "Talk to me. Distract me. Otherwise all I'm going to be able to think about is Jo – and leaving you. All of you."

It seemed to Jim that there was suddenly much less air in the room. Nevertheless, he forced himself to smile – limply – and say, "How about a drink?"

*

Jim took out the Glenlivet single malt Scotch, which had been a thirtieth birthday present from Scotty, and poured two glasses. Handing one to McCoy, he said, "You know, I never thought I'd make it this far."

"To thirty?" said McCoy, turning the glass and watching the pale gold liquid as it sloshed.

"Yeah." Jim perched on the edge of his desk, one foot dangling, the other resting on the arm of McCoy's chair. "All right, maybe not _never_ ," he went on, cradling his own drink. "When I turned twenty-nine I started thinking, 'Oh, shit, I'm actually gonna make it, huh?' Pretty optimistic, right?"

"Considering your approach to life? Yeah." McCoy downed the Scotch in a single long gulp and held his empty glass toward Jim.

"So," said Jim, eyebrows raised, "we're not just drinking. We're getting drunk. Is that a good idea?"

"Look who's talking." McCoy glanced up at him bleakly. "And so what?"

"So, I'm still the captain and you're still CMO. We're both still responsible adults. In theory, if not always in practice." Nonetheless, he refilled McCoy's glass. "Just pace yourself, all right? This stuff was a gift. It's not like Scotty's got a distillery down in engineering." Jim took a sip of his own Scotch. He let the stuff roll around on his tongue before letting it burn its way down his throat. With a regretful sigh he said, "Wish he did, though."

"Maybe next time you're retrofitted."

"I was just thinking that. Yeah. Shit, I've earned it. How many times have I saved the Federation in the last five years?"

"I lost count." For the first time, a slight smile touched McCoy's lips. "You know, I'm really going to miss—"

"Don't," said Jim sharply. "For fuck's sake, I don't want to hear that. If you're even thinking of saying something maudlin, take a drink."

McCoy took a long drink.

After a moment, so did Jim.

They looked at each other, and Jim tried not to think things like, _I only made it to thirty because of you. Hell, I only made it to twenty-three because you were there. What am I supposed to do now?_ He couldn't tell what Bones was thinking, which was odd; usually, the man's face was like an open book. Oh, the grief was still there, right on the surface – not for Jocelyn and her husband, but for the life he was about to leave and the uncertainty that awaited him in Savannah. Could Joanna forgive him for staying away so long, even though he had to follow Starfleet's orders? Did she still think of him as her father, or had Roger completely taken over that role? All of that was right there in Bones's eyes, flashing like a goddamn strobe light. But what the hell was beneath it? Intrigued, already a little intoxicated, Jim leaned forward.

McCoy hadn't moved, though his hazel eyes suddenly seemed to fill Jim's vision. "You'll be all right," he said. "Honestly. You're a smart guy. You're even starting to act like it. I trust you."

"Someone's gotta."

"Don't be stupid. Your whole crew trusts you."

" _Someone's_ gotta," he said again.

"Are you saying you don't trust yourself?" said McCoy. "Don't be— Shit, you're not drunk enough to be talking like that. You've only had half a glass."

Jim looked at his Scotch. Huh. The son of a bitch was right. Better remedy that, he thought, and downed the rest. McCoy raised one eyebrow, and Jim said, "Ha! I was waiting for you to do that. Fuck, I'm gonna miss that. Oops, that was maudlin, wasn't it? Better take a drink."

As Jim refilled his glass, McCoy said, "This isn't a game."

Jim drank. "No. It is not. Games are fun. Unless you're trapped in a coliseum by some fucker who thinks he's Caesar, and he's making you watch your two best friends go at it with gladiators. That's not a fun game. Then you kind of just have to sit there – because there's a gun pointed at your head – and you think, Well, okay, one of them's a Vulcan, so he'll probably be all right, but the other one's a doctor who doesn't even know how to fucking parry." He took another drink. A long one.

"Now who's rambling? You're starting to sound like you did at the Academy. Except you didn't used to get drunk this easily."

"I'm not drunk," said Jim, and he didn't suppose that he was. He wasn't the heavy drinker he used to be, but it still took more than two glasses of Scotch to get him shit-faced. He was just tired. And Bones had given him quite a shock, making him think – inadvertently, of course, and just for a minute or two – that Joanna was dead. Telling him that he was leaving. Jim was just feeling a bit… loosened up. Well-oiled, as someone – who? Someone from the Academy? Gary Mitchell, maybe? – used to say. His mind was becoming untethered and straining to go to places that he did not ordinarily let it. Going exploring. Off on an adventure. His smile must have been strange indeed because Bones gave him this _look_ that was so wary it was almost funny.

"We had fun at the Academy," Jim said, leaning over to refill McCoy's glass, though he hadn't asked for any more.

"Yeah," said McCoy. "We did. _You_ made sure I had a good time."

"You didn't always let me."

"No. Well, it took me a while to realize that you wanted to be friends. I mean, to _accept_ that you wanted to be friends. I couldn't figure out why someone like you would want to hang around someone like me all the time."

"What was wrong with you?" Jim asked with feigned innocence.

McCoy gave him a sardonic smile. "Ten years older than most of the other recruits. Divorced, with a kid I only got to see on holidays. Depressed as fuck. Scared of flying."

"Yeah, you were a mess," agreed Jim. "And that was maudlin. Drink." After McCoy had done as he was told, Jim looked at him thoughtfully. "D'you remember _your_ thirtieth birthday?"

"Yeah," said McCoy. "That was back in the late Middle Ages, wasn't it?"

"You were depressed as fuck. I rescued you."

"I was actually having a decent time," McCoy said, "until you decided to rush in and rescue me."

"You were drinking alone in your room. And listening to some godawful music. I remember," said Jim. "I hauled your sorry ass out of there, and took you to that noodle place."

"Where you flirted shamelessly with our underage waitress. I remember."

"What happened after that?"

"You honestly don't remember?"

"No," said Jim, frowning. "I do, but it's all… disconnected. There are _scenes_ , but…" He stared into the middle distance, trying to recall. Had they gone bar hopping? Had he really done that to Bones on his thirtieth birthday? That seemed a little mean, but then…

"We went to the beach," McCoy said quietly. "Remember the beach?"

Yes, the beach. There'd been all that fog, and the sand wet and cold between his bare toes. What had happened to his shoes and socks? Strange. Jim remembered standing on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, feeling the cold waves tugging insistently at his calves as they rushed back toward the sea. He'd stood there until his feet felt like blocks of ice. What the hell had he been thinking? Bones had warmed them up again with his hands. With those big, wonderfully callused hands. And then what? Then what?

Then that kiss. Jesus Christ, that kiss. He used to think about it when he jerked off. Fuck, for months afterward, whenever he kissed someone else, it would pop up in his mind's eye. But he hadn't allowed himself to think about it in years. Bones surging over him, more powerful than any wave. Hot mouth clamping desperately over Jim's like he was performing resuscitation. Breath tasting like salt and beer and _Bones_. Hot hands under his shirt, on his belly, fingers tugging at the waistband of his jeans…

After that, Jim's memory was a little fuzzy. They hadn't had sex. He would have remembered _that_. He did remember waking up in Bones's arms the next morning, that gray sweater scratchy beneath his cheek. He remembered Bones's fingers curving against the back of his neck, his left hand resting lightly over Jim's right. He remembered a feeling of complete and utter peace as Bones's warm breath stirred his hair and that broad, flat chest rose and fell with the evenness of the tide.

In the six years that had followed, Jim had never felt so safe or serene as he had that dawn. Never.

Aware suddenly that he'd been quiet for a long time and that McCoy was watching him uncertainly, Jim said, "I remember the beach." Then he put his glass down, slid off the desk, and took McCoy by the shoulders. Pulling him out of the chair, ignoring the Scotch that splashed against the front of his shirt and McCoy's startled exclamation of protest, Jim looked him in the eye. "Of course I remember the beach." Then he brought their mouths together in a kiss.

McCoy's lips were as soft and dry as Jim remembered, his tongue as hot. That hungry whine that was almost a keen that came from deep in his throat – that was new, or else Jim simply hadn't noticed it before. Six years ago. _Six fucking years ago._ Jim tilted his head and deepened the kiss, his tongue pushing against McCoy's.

He heard a minute thud, which must have been McCoy's empty Scotch glass hitting the carpet. Then McCoy's hands were on him, on his waist, then on his cheeks, in his hair, seizing hold, _holding_.

A voice in Jim's head said, _This won't change a damn thing. He's leaving. He's leaving you,_ but Jim said _Fuck you,_ to that voice. The ship could be sucked into a black hole, the Romulans could attack, and none of that meant anything against the fact that McCoy was pretty much fucking Jim's mouth with his tongue, and that he, Jim, had not been this sharply, painfully aroused in – well, a while.

As they kissed, McCoy started to walk Jim backward and Jim realized that his target was the bed and _We are really going to do this,_ he thought. _We should be wearing fewer clothes, in that case._ With uncharacteristic clumsiness, Jim's fingers fumbled with McCoy's zipper, got it open on the second try, then pushed the pants down over his hips. The underwear followed, McCoy hissing against Jim's lips as the cotton, the elastic, and Jim's hand slid over his erection.

McCoy broke the kiss to remove his shirt and boots, and Jim took the opportunity to undress quickly. Then their mouths met again and fingernails raked across bare flesh, leaving bruises and long welts. _Take this back to Earth with you,_ Jim thought as he dragged a jagged thumbnail across McCoy's thigh.

Then abruptly the edge of the bed hit the backs of Jim's knees and he was jolted off his feet. He fell heavily against the firm mattress and McCoy fell on top of him, still kissing him, hands moving hungrily over his chest like he was trying to memorize every ridge and plane. It occurred to Jim that the touches were not random; McCoy's fingers lingered over certain spots – like two inches above his left nipple or three inches below his bottommost rib on the right side. The latter was where that Cardassian's knife had entered him – shit, was it really almost five years ago? – and suddenly Jim knew what McCoy was doing and his heart tightened.

There were no scars, of course. But McCoy knew the site of just about every serious injury Jim had ever sustained, and as he revisited them, Jim was seized by a feeling of sheer helplessness. Even when he'd lain bleeding at the feet of an enemy, or been forced to listen as he was told exactly how he was going to be tortured to death, the knowledge that Bones was out there, was coming to get him, had kept him going. And now Bones was leaving.

Jim wanted to cry out in protest, but his body had other ideas. The only sound he could make was a moan as his head fell back against the pillow. He bared his throat, arching against McCoy's palms, trying to maneuver his lower half so that their erections lined up. There – yes. Right there. Oh God, that was it. Stars, whole galaxies began to spin and sizzle before his eyes.

"Jim," McCoy groaned, his voice thick with need.

 _This won't change anything. You'll lose him anyway._

Jim told himself that he did not care, though he knew that that was a lie. As he thrust upward and his mouth sought McCoy's, he wished for the end of the world.

*

Jim was awakened from a half-sleep by the slight jouncing of the bed and McCoy muttering, "Shit. Oh, shit." He lay on his side, facing the wall, and listened as McCoy stumbled about, looking for his clothes. He lay perfectly still, willing his breaths and his heartbeat to steady, telling himself that if McCoy thought he was asleep, maybe he'd come back to bed and they could ignore the inevitable for a few more hours.

But McCoy did not come back, and after a time Jim heard the whoosh of the door opening, then closing.

Jim rolled over. "Lights," he croaked. In the dimness, he uncurled his limbs, and pressed his palm and cheek against the side of the bed where McCoy had lain. It was still warm. Jim did not fall asleep again until long after the warmth had faded.


	2. Chapter 2

Winnie Kirk was as kind as McCoy remembered. She was also discreet, for which he was grateful. Jim had obviously told her why he needed swift conveyance to Earth, but all she did after showing him to his temporary quarters on the _USS Hypatia_ was hug him, kiss him gently on the cheek, and tell him that she was sorry for his loss.

"It wasn't my loss," McCoy said. "I lost Jocelyn years ago."

"Maybe I wasn't talking about your ex-wife," Winnie replied. There was a little more silver in her hair, a few more lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but she was as lovely and slender as she'd been the last time he'd seen her, three years earlier. Her hands moved as if she meant to reach for him again, but after a moment she let them fall back to her sides. "If you need anything at all, Leonard…"

When McCoy didn't answer, she left it at that.

Over the course of the voyage, he saw her a few times, mostly in corridors or the _Hypatia_ 's small infirmary, where he tried to make himself useful. They talked briefly, mostly about their respective missions, never about the night they'd ended up screwing in his bed on board the _Enterprise_ , where he'd fucked it up by gasping her son's name. She only ever asked him once about Jim – was he all right?

"Yeah," McCoy answered, avoiding her sharp blue-gray eyes. "Well, maybe not at the moment. But he will be. His first officer will see that he is. The whole crew looks out for him."

He felt the curiosity in her gaze, but she never mentioned the promise she'd exacted from him that night on the _Enterprise_ , that he love her son in whatever way he could, in whatever way Jim would let him.

McCoy kept to himself mostly. He tortured himself with thoughts of Jocelyn, not as he'd known her in the last years of their marriage and right after the divorce – bitter, frustrated, determined to excise him from her life – but as the young woman he'd loved at Ole Miss and in the early days of their marriage. Or thought he'd loved. All these years later, who the hell knew for sure what he'd felt, what either of them had felt?

Jocelyn hadn't been beautiful, but she'd had this long, graceful neck that he'd found bewitching, especially when, walking away after a date or a class, she'd sort of half-turn to glance at him over her shoulder. She'd had chestnut hair that looked reddish in bright sunlight, and keen gray eyes, just a shade or two darker than morning mist over the Savannah River. And she was so fucking smart. A cutting wit, their professors said. She'd been captain of the debate team, vice president of a couple of student organizations; he forgot which. But she'd had no idea what she'd wanted to do after graduation. So she let him do his thing at medical school, and by the time she'd sort of figured herself out he'd been hard at work on his internship, and they'd had little Joanna to deal with.

For a while, he'd thought that the baby would keep them together. Maybe Jocelyn had thought so too. It hadn't worked. If anything, Joanna divided them further – though McCoy would never dream of telling his daughter that, and doubted Jocelyn ever had.

Fucking hell.

 _I'm sorry, Joss. Truly, I am. I was a real asshole, but I never wished for this._

He tried not to think about Jim, but that proved impossible. He'd only seen Jim twice since… that night. The first time, Jim had contacted him over the comm, to inform him that his transport had been arranged. The second time had been goodbye.

The entire senior staff had come to the transporter room to see him off. Jim had stood by the doors, arms crossed over his chest, his expression almost blank, while Chekov and Sulu shook McCoy's hand, Uhura stood on her toes to hug him, and Scotty not-so-surreptitiously slipped a little flask of something or other into the side pocket of his uniform pants.

After Scotty had stepped back to warm up the transporter, Spock had said, to McCoy's surprise, "Doctor, serving with you has been a most interesting experience. It is my hope that we do so again. Should we not, live long and prosper." He'd made that Vulcan salute and McCoy, rather touched, had tried to mimic him, but he never could do it right, and finally – flushing as Spock smiled indulgently – he'd let his hand fall.

After that, the world had seemed to shift. It was as if the transporter room had become a giant game board and all the pieces standing between McCoy and Jim had been swept aside. McCoy did not remember moving. One moment, they'd stood looking at each other, and then, in the blink of an eye, the space between them had vanished. Jim had put his arms around him, resting his chin briefly on his shoulder, and whispered into his ear, "You're being a good father right now."

"Jim, I—" But he couldn't say the rest. So he'd hugged him back – very tightly for about a second – then stepped away.

It was just as well he hadn't said anything, McCoy supposed as he lay in his bed on the _Hypatia_ , staring at the ceiling, one arm curled behind his head. Whatever he'd meant to say – and he couldn't even remember it right now – would have come out wrong and embarrassed him, or quite possibly both of them.

Maybe there was nothing he could have said. How _did_ you thank your best friend for a much-needed drink and a good fuck? You couldn't, McCoy thought. You just let it go.

If it had been something other than a pity fuck… But McCoy had convinced himself that it wasn't. Jim liked to fuck. He always had. He did it for fun, or to calm his nerves, or if it struck him as the diplomatic thing to do. He stayed out of his crew's beds, but he still got around when they were planetside or docked at a space station. Women, men – though not many, as far as McCoy knew – aliens… If it had a pleasing appearance and compatible genitalia, and didn't try to kill them, it probably had a notch in the captain's proverbial bedpost.

That was an exaggeration and McCoy knew it, but thinking it made him feel a little better. Okay, not _better_ , but… more secure in his conviction that in dragging him to bed that night, Jim had only meant to distract him, to comfort him, to save him from being alone with his guilt.

And McCoy knew that, in fact, Jim hadn't dragged him anywhere. Jim had certainly started it with that kiss, but McCoy was the one who'd let it continue, who'd pushed Jim onto the bed and climbed on top of him. Eagerly. He shouldn't have done that. As soon as Jim started talking about that night on the beach, McCoy should have gotten up and walked away.

But if he had, he'd never have known if his fantasies in any way resembled reality, if he could make Jim moan the way he'd secretly wanted to for… Jesus, _years_. He'd seen Jim naked dozens, maybe hundreds of times in his capacity as ship's surgeon. His hands had been all over that body, but always in a medical context. He'd never allowed a touch to linger for longer than was strictly necessary. He'd thought about it. Jesus fuck, he'd spent long, sleepless nights thinking about it, with sweat dripping down his face and his hand between his legs.

That night, he'd gotten a taste of the real deal. Had it been worth it? He wasn't sure.

Neither was he sure that leaving afterward had been a smart move. It had been hard, leaving Jim sleeping like that, his long arms and legs curled limply in repose, his disheveled blond hair dark with sweat. Hard. It had been like wrenching off a piece of his own body. But McCoy told himself – and continued to tell himself – that it would have been worse if he'd stayed and Jim had awoken and reacted with surprise, or worse, chagrin. Their friendship could not have survived that.

But this?

Maybe. He sincerely hoped so. As badly as Joanna needed him now, McCoy needed to know that Jim was out there, having adventures and… caring about him. It was just something he _needed_ , like air, like blood.

God, what a fucking mess.

*

Once the _Hypatia_ was close enough to Earth, McCoy beamed down to the planet. After that it was a series of shuttle rides, all of which went by in a blur. Soon enough, he was stepping out of a station and into Georgia sunshine.

It was hot, even for May, and humid. It was early afternoon on a weekday, so there weren't that many people out on the streets and sidewalks. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers, and fairly hummed with birdsong and the shiver of tiny insect wings. A faint breeze stirred the Spanish moss that hung from the tree branches, but that was about all it did. McCoy cursed Jim and the bruises and bite marks that still stood out against the skin of his neck and meant that he couldn't wear a t-shirt or unbutton his collar. _And that's the last time I'm thinking about Jim Fucking Kirk,_ he told himself firmly. From that moment forward, every thought had to be for Joanna.

Would she be glad to see him?

He wondered as he made his way to the house where she was staying, a friend's house somewhere near Forsyth Park. The executor of Jocelyn's will, whom he'd contacted before leaving the _Enterprise_ , had informed him that Joanna would be expecting him, but that had been all he'd said. Would she be angry? In the eight years since the divorce, he'd written to her almost every week and called whenever he'd been able. But he'd seen her very rarely; the fact that it had not been his fault meant little to him, and he worried that it might not mean much to her, either. She rarely seemed angry in her letters – not with him, at least – but he worried anyway.

As he walked up Whitaker Street, he spotted a two-story Victorian that had to be the one where Joanna was staying. It was her best friend Eleanor Ann's house, and Joanna had described it to him once in vivid detail. It was turquoise, with candy-pink shutters and a small front yard "just about exploding" – Jo's words – with hot pink azaleas. The house also boasted a small porch with a white railing.

A young girl in a blue sundress was perched rather precariously on that railing. She was barefoot. Her head was bent over a book and her long dark hair fell in her face. She seemed wholly absorbed, but she glanced up when he stopped at the wrought iron gate that separated the property from the sidewalk. Her mouth made a little "o" and, dropping her book, she slid off the railing, only narrowly avoiding landing in the azaleas.

"Jo," he sort of croaked, his hand on the gate.

In another moment she was in his arms, and it seemed to McCoy that though her body was a different shape entirely and she was wearing perfume – and makeup! – no time at all had passed since he'd last held her this tightly.

"You came back. Daddy." Her voice broke on the word and suddenly she was sobbing against his shoulder, her slim arms squeezing as if she were afraid he'd slip away.

"Course I came back, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice sliding into that drawl that, as a Starfleet officer, he'd tried pointedly to suppress. Gathering her closer still, rocking her gently, he said, "I'm here. I won't leave you again. Not ever."


	3. Chapter 3

After McCoy left the _Enterprise_ , Jim made an honest attempt at exercising what he would once have considered undue caution. He did it because he figured it was what Bones would have wanted (as if the man had died and not simply gone to Georgia!) and also out of consideration for his new CMO's mental health. McCoy had been right, of course; Nurse Christine Chapel was more than capable of running sickbay, though at one point she drew him aside to say, "Captain, with all due respect, please don't do anything crazy until I've got at least one more highly trained surgeon on my team. Just in case."

So Jim tried. Which was to say that he made a concerted effort to look before leaping, brought at least one extra medkit whenever he left the ship, and had at least one fruit or vegetable with every evening meal. He felt a bit silly and self-conscious, even though he was doing it for Bones – and Chapel's people down in sickbay, whom he imagined waiting for him with hyposprays poised.

It lasted about two weeks. Spock started noticing and asking questions ("Captain, are you not well?" "Captain, is there something you are attempting to avoid telling me?") so Jim stopped being careful and instead threw himself into his work with gusto. He felt better almost immediately. He didn't feel _whole_ , of course. He still thought about Bones, even when he was dangling by his fingernails over some seemingly bottomless pit, even when he was looking down the jagged blade clutched in the paw of some massive man-bird-bear thing. But he felt better. More normal.

When he was in the thick of it, anyway. Afterward, he usually felt like shit. He thought about Bones then as well, standing over him and scowling disapprovingly while Chapel dabbed antiseptic onto his cuts or hooked him up to the osteogenic stimulator. "Dammit Jim," he'd imagine Bones saying, "you're not old, but you're not twenty-two anymore, and you're not made of fucking rubber. Give it a rest."

After the man-bird-bear incident, Spock said much the same thing to him, though his language was rather cleaner. "Captain," Spock said one night over tea and chess in Jim's quarters, "it has come to my attention that you are behaving with more than your usual amount of recklessness." Then he captured Jim's last remaining rook, the bastard.

"So?" said Jim, studying the board. He'd have come up with something cleverer, but he hurt. The man-bird-bear had really done a number on him; the slashes across his chest and thigh were healing nicely, but his muscles were sore and he still had bruises just about everywhere. Eying Spock's queen, he moved a bishop. Even that small movement made him wince.

Spock's eyebrows rose in what Jim figured had to be concern. Over the years, he'd learned to stop assigning emotions to Spock's expressions, but he knew that there was _something_ behind them. All right, maybe concern was an emotion. It was a _mild_ one.

"Captain," Spock said, capturing the bishop with an overlooked pawn, "not only are you behaving recklessly, you are playing chess in a manner that is markedly worse than customary."

"Spock, I got beat up. No offense, but my mind is not on the game."

"That much is evident. While I do not wish to presume, you _are_ the captain, and your behavior does have an impact on the rest of your crew. I should be remiss in my duties as first officer if I did not point this out."

Jim sighed, stretched, winced again. "What are you presuming?"

"That you miss Doctor McCoy."

"Of course I miss him," said Jim. "He's my best friend, aside from you. Right now I actually almost miss his hyposprays. That's not to be repeated, you understand?"

"Understood, Captain. Perhaps you should return to sickbay."

"No. I can deal with a little pain. Anyway," he went on, avoiding Spock's gaze, "Bones isn't there."

"I see," said Spock.

 _Does he?_ Jim wondered.

"Captain," said Spock. Then, "Jim."

He looked up. Despite his repeated insistence, Spock rarely used his first name.

"When Nyota and I are apart," Spock said in a tone that was almost gentle, "it is… difficult to describe without referencing emotions I do not, as a rule, express."

"But you feel them. I know that."

Spock hesitated. "Yes. Even when I know that she is somewhere safe, it is as if… the part of my being to which she lays claim has gone away with her. I am not sure if I can make it plainer."

"No, I get it," said Jim. "But that's different. You and Uhura are together."

"As are you and the doctor," Spock said. "After a fashion."

Jim flushed, his glance sliding inadvertently and inexorably to the bed, just visible through the open door on the other side of the room. No way in hell could Spock know what had happened. The bastard was intuitive, but that was just unbelievable.

"You have been friends," Spock went on, "since your first days at Starfleet Academy. Is that not so?"

"Yeah, that's so." _Eight years_ , Jim thought. _Or almost. Just a little bit longer than Bones's marriage lasted. Huh._

"You have a long history. His presence has influenced your development both professionally and personally. Moreover, for reasons that sometimes defy understanding, you enjoy his company. For you to miss him is… logical."

Okay, Spock did get it. Sort of.

"However," said Spock, "it is irresponsible for you to allow Doctor McCoy's absence to affect your behavior in so noticeable a manner."

"Duly chastised. What should I do?"

He could just about feel the dryness in Spock's tone. "It has been several weeks since his departure. Contact him. Ascertain whether or not he is managing well in his present situation. It would give you peace of mind, I believe."

"I don't want to contact him," said Jim, wrenching his gaze from the bed and turning back to Spock. "I know it's illogical, but I just – can't. He has his own life to worry about. He's got his daughter, who's probably still a mess. You know what it's like to lose a mother unexpectedly."

He regretted saying that immediately, though Spock's expression did not alter in the slightest. "Anyway," Jim went on, lowering his voice, "Joanna McCoy needs her father and I… don't want to distract him. Not right now. It'd be selfish of me. Bones is all right."

"Might I make another suggestion?"

"Shoot."

"In a few months, the _Enterprise_ will be returning to Earth's orbit for maintenance and so the crew may go on leave. As you have not yet informed me of your plans, I assume that you have not made any. Why not spend your leave, or part of it, with the doctor in Georgia?"

"See," said Jim, stretching his lips in what he hoped was more grin than grimace, "that's an even worse idea than your first one. I don't want to be in his way. He doesn't need that. He probably doesn't even want it." He turned once more to the bed, and that was a bad move because this time, Spock followed his gaze. His first officer gave a small sigh of understanding, and Jim wanted to knock the table over and send the fucking chess pieces flying. Instead, he clenched his fists and waited for the inevitable.

"I see."

 _No, you don't,_ thought Jim, his fingernails digging little crescent moons into his palms. _It's different with you and Uhura. You weren't friends first. I doubt she spends the night every fucking time, but I just don't see her kicking you in the heart and then not saying fucking_ anything.

"Jim. I have a third suggestion."

"You think I should bring flowers?"

"No," said Spock. "I suggest that you come with me to New Vulcan after the successful completion of our mission."

Okay, that was unexpected. "Why would I go with you to New Vulcan? Why are you even going to New Vulcan? You and Uhura should spend your leave on some tropical island."

"Nyota and I are planning to make the trip for the purpose of visiting my father… and so that we might acknowledge our relationship before the elders of my people."

"Whoa. Can you even do that?"

"My own parents did so upon their return to Vulcan, following their marriage."

"But you and Uhura aren't married. Unless—"

"No," said Spock, "we are not. Nor, for the present, do we plan to marry. Nevertheless, we do intend to visit New Vulcan, and I do intend to present her before the High Council as…"

"The one who lays claim to a piece of you?" Jim finished, remembering what Spock had said earlier.

"Essentially, yes."

"And Uhura's okay with that?"

"She has informed me of her willingness. We are completely open with each other," he said pointedly, and Jim scowled. "She understands as well that this is not merely about us. As the one who translated the Klingon distress call originating from Rura Penthe, she did make it possible, however indirectly, for the Vulcan High Council to escape the planet's destruction. She is something of a heroine and deserves the Council's acknowledgement and respect."

"Well," said Jim, "that's great. That's – I gotta hand it to you, Spock. Parading, I'm sorry, presenting your human girlfriend to the Vulcan High Council. Thumbing your nose at them again. And all because they insulted your mother." He hurried on before Spock could protest: "That's one of the ballsiest moves I've ever heard of. Kudos."

"Am I correct in assuming that you have paid me a compliment?"

"Yeah," said Jim. "But I can't go to New Vulcan with you. Much as I'd like to see Uhura in one of those shelf bodices the Vulcan women wear. I get along with your dad and you know I like getting to act competent and articulate in front of T'Pau, but… this is your show, Spock. Yours and Uhura's. I don't want to be a third wheel. It's not that there's nothing for me on New Vulcan. There just… isn't enough."

"There is," said Spock quietly, "my counterpart."

"The other Spock?" Jim said, surprised. He'd known for years that his first officer had met his other self – a weird image – following the destruction of the _Narada_. And that it hadn't caused the universe to self-destruct. Still. "What about him? You've been in contact?"

"Only very occasionally, and primarily to – as you might say – check up on my father."

"Huh."

"He loved my mother. For many years, he depended upon her in ways of which I was not aware until after her death. I had… concerns. In any case, Jim, my counterpart has asked about you each time we've spoken. It is my belief that he wishes to see you again."

"So he can tell me more about the way I _should_ be? No, never mind that. He's great. But why would the other Spock want to see me?"

"Because," Spock said frankly as he laid his hands on the table, "he is an old man trapped in a universe that is not entirely familiar to him. Because I believe that he has seen more than his share of death and destruction. Because I believe that he, like you, misses someone." He glanced at the chessboard. "Mate in three."

"Dammit," said Jim.

*

It took McCoy a while to get used to living in Savannah again. After five months, it still didn't feel like home, but by then at least he had an address and furniture. By that time as well he'd picked up a few shifts at a local clinic, written a few chapters of his book on alien physiology, and reached the conclusion that he didn't know a goddamn thing about raising a teenage girl.

It had been all right at first. Joanna was heartbroken over her mother and stepfather, but McCoy had anticipated that and managed to speak only graciously about the woman who'd broken his own heart, ruined him financially, and basically run him off the planet. It was easier than he'd thought it would be, which had come as a pleasant surprise. Still, he'd preferred it when Jo wanted to talk about something else – like high school, which she'd be starting in September, or his adventures on the _Enterprise_ \- or when she didn't want to talk at all. During the latter, they typically holed up in McCoy's hotel room – or in his apartment, when he finally found a two-bedroom that he liked – and ordered takeout and watched movies in companionable silence. Sometimes Joanna would slide up close to him on the sofa and rest her head on his shoulder and he'd think that despite everything, he was pretty damn lucky.

Then September came around and things turned stressful. Joanna announced that she didn't want to start high school after all. McCoy told her, perhaps a bit too brusquely, that she didn't have a choice.

"Who're you to tell me what to do?" she snapped back, red-faced, small hands curled into fists.

"Your father."

"Yeah? Well, I haven't seen you in five years!"

"I've been living here all summer, Jo," he said, trying to ignore the gut-punch her words had dealt him. "You're going, and that's final."

She sulked for the rest of the day, but she went.

McCoy talked with her guidance counselor, who suggested that Joanna didn't like the idea of leaving him for long periods of time because she was afraid he'd abandon her too. Not on purpose, of course. But Jocelyn and Roger had never intended to leave Joanna. One day, they'd just been – gone. It would be upsetting for anyone, but for an hormonal teenager who'd already seen her parents' marriage dissolve and her biological father leave the planet altogether…

Over dinner that night, McCoy told Joanna that he had absolutely no intention of leaving her again, that he wouldn't even take a vacation without her. Somewhat to his surprise, she flared right up.

"Don't say that, okay? You just don't know! You don't know anything!"

"Jo, I promise—"

She stormed away.

And so it went. They argued over her clothes (which were too tight and too revealing, in McCoy's opinion) and her grades (which fluctuated wildly that fall). They ate more than a few meals in stony silence. Not that Joanna was impossible all the time. There were days – quite a number, in fact – when she was downright pleasant. She loved math and science, particularly biology, which delighted McCoy. Those days when her biology teacher gave out interesting assignments were usually pretty good for both of them. They sat at the kitchen table, sipping sweet tea and eating praline pecans from a bowl while Joanna flipped through her textbook and McCoy told her what he knew about mitochondria or the cardiovascular system or whatever the topic happened to be.

She liked hearing his stories about the _Enterprise_ , especially ones where Captain Kirk flouted authority and came out on top. She'd seen Jim on the news, McCoy knew. He suspected she had a small crush, which was unnerving. She did not, he discovered quickly, like hearing stories where McCoy risked his own life to save an injured crewman or attempted to buck the Prime Directive in order to bring aid to a suffering alien community. McCoy was proud of his work, but he understood her distress, so he talked more about Jim and Spock and the rest.

By October, things had more or less settled down. Joanna still had little enthusiasm for school, and the two of them still argued – about her curfew, her music, whether or not she could get a new puppy. But the arguments had become routine, and McCoy was learning how to win.

Then, around the middle of the month, Jim Kirk contacted him.

It was late in the evening. Joanna was in her room, listening to what passed for music these days. McCoy lay stretched out on the sofa in the living room in a t-shirt and sweatpants, a glass of bourbon in one hand, a book in the other. The aroma of dinner – grilled chicken, corn bread, and collard greens – lingered in the air. Rain pelted the window.

The computer on the wall opposite the sofa chirruped awake, then said pleasantly, "Incoming transmission for Leonard McCoy."

"I'll take it," McCoy said without bothering to check the transmission's origin. He almost dropped his drink when Jim's smiling face flashed onto the screen.

"Bones!"

"Jim." He sat up quickly, carefully setting his drink and book on the floor. He was aware of his languid appearance, his disheveled hair, his stubble. He scratched self-consciously at his cheek. "It's – good to see you."

"Yeah, you too. Hey, I'm not interrupting anything, am I? Where's the kid? How are you guys doing?"

McCoy raised an eyebrow. "What I consider an interruption, you'd probably think of as a rescue."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

McCoy smiled. "It's a no, Jim. The kid's in her room. She's… as good as can be expected, I guess. We both are. You – you look good." He did, at that. He looked as if he'd been working out – or working hard, more likely. His skin was darkly tanned, his blond hair sun-streaked. Even the lashes that shadowed his vivid blue eyes appeared to be a few shades lighter. His shoulders seemed broader too. Very… very nice. McCoy licked his lips, tried not to imagine what the rest of him looked like under that black shirt and pants. "What have you been up to?"

"I've been on New Vulcan, of all things," said Jim. "I went there with Spock and Uhura after we brought the _Enterprise_ back to drydock. I was going to stay with her, but Pike actually volunteered to oversee her retrofitting. With Scotty hovering over his shoulder. She's all spruced and ready to head back out. But that won't happen until after Earth's New Year."

His lashes twitched, and McCoy knew that there was a question he wanted to ask. To forestall him, he said quickly, "What were the three of you doing on New Vulcan? Spock I understand, but the two of you?"

"Well," said Jim, "Spock and Uhura wanted to see Sarek and flaunt their relationship. Just a little."

"That's ballsy."

"That's my officers. And that's exactly what I said."

"So, what about you?"

"I made T'Pau laugh. Almost. I swear. Okay, I got her to raise one eyebrow _really_ high, which is like a Vulcan laugh, right?"

McCoy's grin broadened. He'd actually been fairly successful in avoiding thoughts of Jim these past few months. But – damn, he'd missed conversations like these. It was almost like being back on the _Enterprise_. Instead of the rain, he imagined the purr of the engines. Instead of Jo's music in the background, he imagined the hum of computers, the babble of crewmen and women deep in discussion. "Where are you now?" he asked, curious.

"Lunar One," said Jim.

Lunar One. Earth's own moon. McCoy glanced at the window. Fucking rain. He knew it was stupid, but it gave him a pleasant feeling, knowing that Jim was right out there, only 384,400 kilometers from the Earth. Considering the distance they'd covered on the _Enterprise_ , that was just a hop, skip, and a jump away. Why, if Jim wanted to, he could be in Savannah in time for lunch the next day.

"Anyway," said Jim, before McCoy could ask him what he was doing on the moon, "New Vulcan was… interesting. I spent most of the time gardening. The Vulcans've done amazing things with the colony, but there aren't a whole lot of them, and not all of them are able-bodied, so they can always use people to help plant things and whatnot. Not that they're given to asking for help." He scratched the back of his neck. "I had to be persistent. I actually spent a lot of time with the other Spock. The one from the alternate timeline."

"Huh," said McCoy, frowning at Jim. The whole idea of an alternate timeline still bothered him a little, even though he now understood the physics behind it. Mostly. "How did that go?"

"It was weird," Jim said slowly. "He… He's old, you know. I don't mean that he's senile or anything like that. Far from it! He clobbered me at chess just about every time. It's just that he's seen and done more than any of us can imagine. He's not the Spock we know. And love," he added with a smirk, which McCoy returned. "His relationship with his father was different. He didn't lose his mother quite so young. He never got involved with Uhura… as far as I know. It was… it was really kind of weird."

"He didn't tell you about yourself, did he? I mean, your alternate self. I mean – you know what the hell I mean."

"Yeah." Jim scratched at his neck again. "I mean no, he didn't say anything about me – specifically. I got impressions, though. Just from the way he… I don't know. I don't want to say the way he _looked_ because he's a Vulcan. He doesn't express his emotions. But sometimes…" He frowned, and his eyes seemed to focus on something far distant. "I got the strangest impression that he hadn't seen me – I mean the other me, alternate me, whatever – in a long time. A _long_ , long time. I think the other me must have died young or something."

"Jesus, Jim." McCoy's chest actually tightened a little at that, even though he could see that Jim - _his_ Jim – was in excellent health.

"Not _young_ young," Jim said quickly. "But if you figure the guy's about 160, if I died at, say, sixty – which is youngish, but not _too_ young – then he wouldn't've seen me for a century. Imagine living for a century without your best friend. I don't think I'd want to."

"Jim – please. This is morbid." It pained him to see Jim so unsettled. Fucking 384,400 kilometers. He wasn't sure what he'd have done if Jim were right there with him. His hands ached to touch Jim all over, to feel the life thumping through his body. "Don't think about it. That was – another life."

"That's what Nero said," said Jim, looking once more at McCoy. "Except, he meant to make my life even shorter than the other Kirk's. Sorry. I didn't mean to be depressing. It's just the whole missing your best friend thing. I felt sorry for the guy. For the other Spock. Deprived of my presence for so long," he went on, sounding more like himself. "I miss you. It's only been five months, but it's felt a lot longer."

"I've missed you too," McCoy said.

"Something else that was weird," said Jim, frowning thoughtfully. "The other Spock asked about _you_ a lot. And by a lot, I mean a lot for a Vulcan. Maybe two or three times in the entire month I was there."

"Me?" said McCoy, surprised.

"Yeah. Of course, I told him about your ex and your daughter. He seemed to think it was wrong, like cosmically wrong, for you not to be on the _Enterprise._ "

"What made you think he thought that?"

"Well," said Jim, "he said something to me once, about alternate timelines. The universe hates 'em, apparently. Ripping holes in the fabric of time, reshuffling the deck, just isn't supposed to happen. So when it does, the universe will try to… to coax things – people, events – back into place. It's how we all ended up on the _Enterprise_ five years ago. We were all together in the other timeline too, but it happened differently."

McCoy felt slightly dizzy. "Jim, please," he said, "I'm—"

"I know. You're a doctor, not a theoretical physicist. Obviously, some things get changed forever. Vulcan's gone, for one thing. My dad's gone. But…" Jim shook his head. "It's a little confusing to me too, to be honest. Just… the idea that you weren't on the _Enterprise_ seemed to bother old Spock. He seemed – and I know this is going to sound weird – he really seemed concerned, and it made me think… he must really have cared about you. Not _you_ you, but… the other you. What does that look mean?"

"This one?" said McCoy, pointing to his own face. "I'm trying to decide if this would all make more sense if I hadn't had anything to drink. Or if I drank a little more."

Jim laughed. "Have a drink, Bones. I wish I could have one with you."

"Right," said McCoy, bending to retrieve his bourbon and also so Jim wouldn't see his face, "because what could possibly go wrong?" He lifted his head in time to see the pained look flash across Jim's face. He was sorry immediately, and would have said so, but Jim spoke first.

"You know where this is going, Bones. I want you back on my ship."

McCoy sighed. "You know I can't. Jo's only halfway through her first year of high school. She needs me."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's just… when it comes to keeping people alive, there's no one I trust more than you. Oh, Chapel was great. She was amazing. But she's gone back to med school. I think I must've scared her into it," he added with a slight lowering of his lashes and a crooked smile. "Anyway, the universe wants you on my ship, Bones."

"Joanna comes first. Then, the universe."

"Ah."

That sigh was so laden that McCoy thought he'd better take a long sip of bourbon before asking. "All right. What?"

"What you said. It actually brings me to something else. I've got a question. A serious one." He shifted nervously.

McCoy took another drink. "What're your symptoms, Jim?" he asked dryly.

Jim looked at him in confusion for a moment, then laughed. "You think I've been dicking T'chullians again? No, no, it's nothing like that! No STDs. I'm fine. It's actually – do you remember Carol from the Academy?"

"Carol," McCoy said blankly. Asking him to recall a girl from Kirk's Academy days was like asking him to recall a single blade of grass from a very large field.

"Marcus. Taught molecular biology. We dated for about a month our second year. I think," he said, his cheeks reddening, "I once described her hair as sunlight on a fucking wheat field, or some bullshit. Carol."

"Carol," said McCoy, vaguely remembering a beautiful young woman some years older than Jim, with dark blue eyes and a halo of silvery blond hair. Something heavy seemed to settle over his chest. "All right, what about her?"

"She's on Lunar One right now. With me. She—"

The pressure on McCoy's chest increased. He breathed slowly, deeply.

"I don't mean she's _with_ me," Jim rambled on. "We haven't gotten back together. I mean, we're both in the same physical space—"

"Jesus, Jim," McCoy snapped, "just say what you mean."

Jim's shoulders went a bit rigid. "She wants to have a baby. With me. But she doesn't want to _be_ with me. She doesn't even want to date."

Okay, then. For a moment, McCoy wasn't sure how to respond. At length he said, "Why you?"

Jim's teeth flashed against his tanned skin. "She's a molecular biologist and a geneticist and a bunch of other things. She wants the best baby possible. And I," he went on in a tone that almost made McCoy laugh, _almost_ , "have superlative DNA."

"You're allergic to every goddamn thing there is."

"Yeah, but I look good. And I'm incredibly smart."

"So, Doctor Marcus is anticipating raising an incredibly good-looking, incredibly blond genius? And you want to know…?"

"If it's a good idea for me to lend her a hand, and… other parts of my anatomy." The grin turned wicked.

"Ethically speaking?"

"No," said Jim. "Of course I know the Federation's rules. We're not tampering with anyone's DNA. I just want to know… if it's wrong for me to help create this new person when I know I'm not going to be around for most of his or her growing up."

McCoy sagged against the sofa pillows. Wryly he looked at Jim. "And you're asking _me_ this because…? Never mind. I know." He passed a hand over his face. "God, Jim."

"Well. I'll be thirty-one in January. I like the idea of another generation of Kirks. My brother Sam's done his bit. Though I suppose this one would be a Marcus. We're talking about names. She wants David for a boy, but I'm pushing for Christopher, after Pike—"

"Shut up for a second." If they were talking names, Jim didn't want his advice; he wanted his approval. "All right. Listen. I want to assume you've thought about this long and hard, but I know damn well not to make any assumptions about you. This doesn't have anything to do with the fact that you're under some sort of impression that you're going to die young, does it? Because your own father—"

"There's no need to remind me," Jim said curtly, his eyes narrowing. "To answer your question – yes, it's crossed my mind."

"You're not your father. You're not even that other Jim Kirk. You're not dying."

"You never know what might—"

"You're not fucking dying," McCoy cut in gruffly. He wanted to reach through the computer screen and give Jim a good hard shake. "So, if that's your only reason for considering doing this, I don't like it." More gently, because he could see that his words had struck a chord, he said, "Give me another reason."

Jim looked stubborn for a moment. Then he shrugged. "I've seen a lot of death. I've killed a lot of people. I like the idea of creating life, for once."

"That's… better," McCoy acknowledged.

"Think about it, Bones. A small me. Or a small Carol."

"Is this a pro or a con?"

Jim smirked. "I think I really want to do this. I know you know all about my issues with absent fathers. I've really thought it over, trust me."

"I do," said McCoy. "Trust you. All right. Just… be sure that it's what _you_ want. Be sure you understand that having a kid – even one you hardly ever see – is like… like walking around with your own heart in your hand. Kids are the best things, but Jesus Christ, you can kiss a good night's sleep goodbye. You getting all this, Jim?"

"Noted," said Jim seriously.

"Good. You've got to talk to Carol. And I mean sit her down and talk about everything the both of you want. If you want to see your kid, figure out _in advance_ how that's going to work, with you all over the galaxy and her at her research station, or wherever she's going to be. Figure it out. What sort of education the kid's gonna have, what's gonna happen if the kid gets sick. Get it in writing. That'll save both of you a world of grief. Because I just can't see you doing the deed and walking away without a backwards glance. That's not who you are, Jim. You're gonna care about this kid a whole helluva lot. More than you can possibly know right now."

"Okay."

The blue gaze was intense and steady, the mouth a firm line. McCoy got the impression Jim was absorbing every word he said through every pore in his body. It gave him an odd, uncertain feeling. "And since you asked me… at least, I think you were trying to ask me… If I'd known how things would turn out with Jocelyn, if I'd known I'd miss almost ten years of my daughter's life, would I still've wanted her?" He gave Jim a very weary look. "Of course, you asshole. That's the stupidest fucking thing you've ever asked me. I don't know what the universe wants, but I know damn well it's a better place for Joanna's existence. If I had to do it again, damn right I would've. Does that answer all your questions?"

"Yeah," said Jim. "Yeah, it does."

They talked for a little longer about things of small importance. After Jim said goodnight and the transmission ended, McCoy sat staring at the blank screen for what seemed like a long time. He wasn't aware of Joanna's presence in the room until she said, "Daddy?"

He almost dropped his drink. Fortunately, there wasn't much bourbon left in the glass. Turning, he said, "Sweetheart?"

"So that was Captain Kirk," she said. "I've seen him on the news a bunch of times, but I had no idea…" She trailed off. Her face, McCoy noted, was slightly flushed; it made her large eyes seem even more intensely green.

"How much of that did you overhear?" McCoy asked warily.

"Oh, a lot. You swear a whole lot. Much more'n you let me."

"I'm a bad example, Jo. Don't emulate me."

Her laughter had a strange edge to it, like it got snagged on something as it came up from her throat. She leaned against the back of the sofa, her long hair spilling messily over her shoulder. Her eyes not _quite_ on his face, she said, "First me, then the universe?"

McCoy had to swallow a couple of times before he could reply. "Yeah," he said.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, which was something she hadn't done in a while. Her lip balm left a slightly sticky, strawberry-scented smear. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she said, "I love you too, Daddy."

*

And so it went. He had a few more communications from Jim, mostly in the form of electronic messages. By the end of October, Carol was pregnant. Jim seemed excited and a little nervous. _But we did talk,_ he wrote to McCoy. _A lot. We made plans for the kid's (Christopher if it's a boy, Gloria – for Carol's mother – if it's a girl) future. I think it'll be all right._

McCoy thought so too, and he said as much in his reply.

 _You really should come back with us,_ Jim wrote shortly before the New Year. _The ship's looking good, Bones. Almost everyone else is here._

And with a pang that he tried to ignore, McCoy answered, _You know I can't._

Though there were times in the months that followed when he honestly wished that he could have. In January, Joanna acquired a boyfriend, whom McCoy met once and disliked instantly. There wasn't anything really wrong with the guy; he just wasn't good enough for Jo. He proved as much when he dumped her the week before Valentine's Day. McCoy dealt with the mess to the best of his ability, but he felt remarkably out of his depth. After that, Joanna turned sullen. Her grades, even in math and biology, took a nosedive. McCoy tried to get her to see a counselor, but that only seemed to make things worse.

His own romantic endeavors went nowhere. For about two weeks, he dated Selena Ramirez, another doctor from the clinic where he still worked. She made it clear, though, that she was looking for something long-lasting, and McCoy decided that he wasn't, so he stopped seeing her outside work. Then there was Elaine, whom he picked up while out for a jog in Forsyth Park. She came over for dinner and Joanna acted impossible, for reasons that she later would not – or could not – articulate. McCoy tried to apologize to Elaine, but she never returned his calls.

Those were the two Joanna knew about. There was also that young man McCoy met in that bar after work, the one with the tousled blond hair, the blue eyes, and the fuckable lips. McCoy had been half-drunk well before the young man – whose name he never got – leaned over and put a hand on his thigh. He remembered being shoved against the door of a bathroom stall, and firm hands gripping his hips while those gorgeous lips kissed their way down his body. McCoy might have gasped Jim's name as he came, but he was pretty sure the guy only shrugged and said, "Been called worse."

 _Don't emulate me, sweetheart,_ he thought the next morning when, sober and ashamed, he had breakfast with his daughter. He still didn't regret what he'd given up for her, but he was beginning to feel lost.

Then in April, he was contacted by Philip Boyce, who was head of Starfleet Medical and who'd been one of McCoy's favorite instructors at the Academy. He looked a good deal older and grayer, but his gaze was as piercing as McCoy remembered. "Leonard," he said without preamble, "it's been almost a year. Time to get off your ass. You're much too good for whatever boring illnesses and injuries people get in Georgia. Starfleet Medical's got a project and we need people like you."

McCoy listened because it was Boyce. The proposal sounded interesting, right up his alley, in fact. Still, as the old man went on, he began to formulate a refusal.

As if he'd read his mind, Boyce said suddenly, "Don't even think about turning me down, Leonard. I know all about your situation and I've taken it into account. Your daughter's fifteen now, isn't she? That's almost as old as some of our yeomen. Besides, we wouldn't be able to ship you out until mid-June – that's after the school year's finished, isn't it?"

"Yes," said McCoy. He gripped the armrests of his chair and tried to keep his feet still. For the first time since leaving the _Enterprise_ , he was excited. "Of course," he added guardedly, "I'll have to ask her if she's interested." _Interested enough to pull her grades up,_ he added silently.

She was.


	4. Chapter 4

The first colony Starfleet Medical sent them to turned out to be New Vulcan. The _Reliant_ dropped them off, along with several large crates containing everything from the latest model of hyposprays to gauze bandages. McCoy had worried that his disdain for logic as a guiding principle would make for an awkward visit. But the colony leaders welcomed him and Joanna graciously and he decided that, as a guest, he could damn well respond in kind and keep his non-professional opinions to himself.

They spent a month in the house of Doctor Geoffrey M'Benga, whom McCoy had known at the Academy and who specialized in Vulcan physiology and medicine. Most days, McCoy worked alongside M'Benga and Vulcan doctors in the colony's single hospital while Joanna helped with things like keeping track of inventory or picking fruit out in the flourishing orchards. She tried to befriend some of the Vulcan children, who were standoffish at first, but she persevered, to her father's relief and delight. In the months since her mother's death, she and most of her friends back in Savannah had grown distant. It had as much to do with the start of high school as Joanna's moodiness, but it had worried him a great deal. He liked listening to her chatter animatedly about T'laria and Sairus, between sips of plomeek soup.

During the evening, McCoy or M'Benga or one of the Vulcan teachers would tutor her briefly in astronomy or biology or history. Afterward, McCoy would settle down with a medical journal while Joanna wrote about her day in the diary she'd begun keeping.

About a week before their scheduled departure, Joanna informed him that she'd met Spock. McCoy had wondered about the old Vulcan, whom he hadn't seen at all during their time on the planet. "He's the oldest person I ever saw," Joanna said at dinner. "But he's awfully nice, I mean for a Vulcan. I mean, Vulcans are _nice_ , but they talk in those _long_ sentences, and they kinda look at me funny when I ask them – politely, I swear! – what the hell they said. Spock doesn't do that. He's missing part of his ear," she added, fingering the curved tip of her own. "Anyway, he said hello. I asked if he wanted to see you and he said yeah, if you wanted. I can tell you where he's living."

So, after his shift the next day, McCoy went to see Spock. It was late in the afternoon and shadows stretched like long fingers across the red-hued earth. He found Spock in his garden, the same one where, he imagined, Jim Kirk had labored and acquired that magnificent tan months earlier. The old Vulcan was seated on a stone bench beneath the flowering branches of a tree. He seemed deep in meditation, but his eyes opened when McCoy approached, and his seamed face broke into a smile. As the Spock that McCoy knew rarely looked that happy – and never when looking at him – it was a little startling.

"Doctor Leonard McCoy," the old Vulcan said, his voice only slightly shaky with age. "You look as if you've had a productive day."

"I've had a slow day," McCoy replied. "Which, in my line of work, is good. And it ended well. I delivered a baby, a healthy little girl named Saavik."

Behind the deep wrinkles, something twinkled in Spock's brown eyes. McCoy thought for a moment that it was pleasure, then remembered that he was talking to a Vulcan. "You met my daughter," he said because he couldn't think of what else to say.

"I met Joanna yesterday," said Spock. "She seemed… in need of friendly conversation. The subject of which," he went on, forestalling McCoy's question, "is between Joanna and me. Unless, of course, she chooses to tell you. We shared tea. I attempted to teach her to play the Vulcan harp."

"Oh," said McCoy, his pride a little ruffled by his daughter's secrecy. Though he supposed that teenagers needed their secrets. "She got any talent?"

"No," said Spock, not unkindly. "But I believe the experience was a pleasant one for her. It was… illuminating for me. She is very much a McCoy."

"Ah," said McCoy, not sure how to take that.

"Do sit down, Doctor. I can offer you tea or perhaps—"

"No thanks, I'm all right." There was another stone bench about a meter away from the one where Spock sat. McCoy lowered himself to it. Leaning forward, he laced his fingers. "So," he said. "Not gonna pretend this isn't weird as hell, sitting here and talking to you. I _know_ that, genetically, you're the same man I've served with on the _Enterprise_ , but it's just a bit easier if I think of you as someone slightly different. Makes my head hurt less."

"It is strange for me as well," Spock replied. "If it helps you to think of us as different, then do so. If it is our experiences that make us who we are, then in truth, we are different people. You are and are not the Leonard McCoy I knew for most of my life."

"See," said McCoy, "you can't just say things like that and expect me not to ask what I'm like in that other timeline."

"Perhaps not," Spock said, "but if you do ask, I am not required to give an answer."

McCoy laughed. "Yeah, you're Spock all right. All right, don't tell me. It's probably something I shouldn't know, anyway. I do have one question, though. It's not about me." For a moment, though, he simply sat there, chewing on his bottom lip. He hadn't come to Vulcan with the intention of asking this, but… Aware of Spock's scrutiny, he shrugged and said, "It's about Jim. We talked a while back and he seemed to have this idea – which I guess he got from you – that… the universe _wants_ certain things to happen. Like our meeting – mine, Jim's, and the other Spock's – and our serving on the same ship. That when something happens to change the flow of things – like you and Nero going back in time did – the universe will naturally try to… to correct the change."

"I suggested as much, yes," said Spock. "If it confuses you, try to think of the universe as a living body. If a foreign entity, such as a wooden splinter or a virus, enters it, the body will naturally attempt to—"

"No," McCoy cut in, "I get that. Sort of. I'm not sure I believe it, but I get it. What I want to know is – assuming it's true, how far would the universe go to correct the problem? What it _thinks_ is the problem? Jim has this idea," he went on hurriedly, "or _had_ this idea, that he died fairly young in that other timeline. Obviously, your Jim isn't the same as my Jim. They've got different pasts, you'd think they'd have different destinies. And yet… they both ended up Captain of the _Enterprise_. With almost the same goddamn crew. I told Jim he was an idiot for worrying, but I gotta wonder…"

"No one's future is set in stone," Spock interrupted with a gentleness that McCoy had not expected. "Regardless of their similarities, my Jim Kirk and your Jim Kirk have followed – will follow – different paths."

"But doesn't that contradict what you just said about the universe?"

"Not necessarily, Doctor. Some things, as I'm sure you are aware, have been forever altered. In the timeline with which I am familiar, my father and I were estranged for many, many years. In this timeline, due in part to the untimely death of my mother, our reconciliation occurred during our lifetimes. Whether or not we remain on speaking terms is uncertain. It is my hope that we shall. It is, in fact, one of my reasons for living here. My father seems to find it rather difficult to disapprove of his son's behavior when his son exists in two places at the same time, and one of those places is only a few kilometers away."

"Sounds an awful lot like cheating."

"So I have been told," Spock said with a slight smile, "by someone who, I believe, means a great deal to both of us. But I suspect I have earned the right to do, as you might say, a little coaxing of my own when it comes to the universe."

"After you've changed the course of history, meddling with your dad is small potatoes?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Precisely."

"My head hurts," said McCoy, rubbing at his temples.

"Then do not think about it. To worry overmuch about the future is not logical."

"Well, I'm an illogical kind of guy."

"Yes, that seems to be a universal constant."

McCoy smiled. For a moment he considered asking about that other thing Jim had told him, about Spock – this Spock – thinking that it was wrong for him not to be on the _Enterprise_. But his head really did hurt. And it was growing late. Joanna would be waiting for him. She'd invited T'laria and Sairus over for dinner; using purely Vulcan ingredients, they were going to attempt to make a proper - albeit vegetarian - Southern meal.

So they talked no further about alternate timelines and what the universe wanted. As the shadows deepened and the spicy, slightly cinnamony scent of the flowers drifted down to them, McCoy thanked Spock for his kindness to Joanna and told him where they were headed next.

"Be careful, my friend," Spock said when McCoy rose to leave. "Be safe. Remember that your daughter is not the only one who needs you."

 _Jim_ , thought McCoy, closing his eyes in pain – but only for a moment.

"So we _were_ friends," he said to Spock. "You and that other me. I'll be damned. Jim was right."

"He often is," Spock replied. "I have one final piece of advice, which I hope will not aggravate your mental distress. It is something I occasionally thought, but never told your counterpart. I am grateful for the chance to say it now. You have a good heart, Doctor McCoy. You would do well to listen to it, particularly when it comes to your own happiness." His head was tilted back; burnished sunlight sank into the crags of his face, deepening them and rendering his expression completely unreadable.

McCoy scratched uncertainly at the back of his neck. At length he said, "Hope you won't take this the wrong way, coming from me, but your heart's not so bad, either."

*

Their next stop was Nikos's World, in the system of the Ring Nebula of Lyra. The Nikosians were humans who had left Earth almost ninety years ago, and since then had had little contact with their home planet. They were grateful for the new vaccines and medical instruments that the McCoys – conveyed by the _Kepler_ \- brought, but unless they were sick or injured, they kept primarily to themselves. McCoy spent most of the time instructing the Nikosian doctors in the use of the new instruments.

When their services were not required, he and Joanna explored. They climbed steep dunes of black sand that almost seemed to hum as it slid away beneath their feet. They looked down on lakes that shimmered like mirrors in the planet's pale, slightly greenish sunlight. Joanna collected shells and pebbles, which she stuffed into her pockets, and leaves and flower petals, which she pressed carefully between the pages of her diary.

"This is why I wanted an old-fashioned one," she said at one point, patting the linen cover.

At night, bundled in warm coats, with scarves and hats, they drank Nikosian tea, which was an infusion of local flowers and herbs that tasted faintly of licorice and vanilla, and watched the stars. The view was spectacular, particularly when the nebula – a true ring of red, yellow, and green – was directly overhead.

For all she'd never been off-planet before, Joanna seemed to have picked up none of her father's reservations about space travel. Then again, at fifteen, he hadn't given much thought to all the things that could go wrong when you left Earth's orbit either. Joanna seemed genuinely awestruck by the universe and, watching her upturned face in the cold night air and starlight, McCoy found himself feeling surprisingly young and at peace with things. Maybe this wasn't what the universe had intended for him originally, but he'd take it. Gladly.

"Eleanor Ann only got to go to Paris this summer," Joanna murmured, her head on his shoulder.

*

The proper name for their third destination was the Tirion-Bell Mining Station on Adhara III, but the miners called it Tirbel. "And since Mister Tirion and Mister Bell are far, far away on Risa – or wherever the hell they're wasting the credit we earn for them way out here," said Stationmaster Hartin, "we can call it whatever we damn well please. Eh, pardon my language," he added, with an apologetic and rather patronizing smile at Joanna.

She sneered.

Once they were in their quarters – adjoining rooms in the station's uppermost level, which was still underground – Joanna made a confession. "When he said Tirbel, I thought he was saying _terrible._ And I thought maybe that was why their old doctor left, 'cause this world is terrible." She snickered.

"I thought he was saying _tribble_ ," McCoy said with a grimace.

"Not such a good sign, huh?"

"It'll be all right."

Her expression soured abruptly. "For _you_ , maybe. You've got interesting stuff to do like fixing broken bones and whatever else goes wrong with miners. I can't even go outside unless I wear, I dunno, _armor_ or something."

Tirbel's unpredictable and abrasive winds kept the station's population indoors much of the time. McCoy understood Joanna's frustration after the freedom she'd enjoyed on New Vulcan and Nikos's World. Still, he was unmoved. He pointed to the PADD sticking out of her backpack. "You can study for your aptitude tests."

"They're not for another _year._ "

"So, get started now, and you should ace 'em."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Love you too, sweetheart," he said.

Things went relatively smoothly, despite the place's inauspicious name and Joanna's grumbling. Alongside Nurse Lily Trahn, McCoy treated lung ailments, broken bones, and other mining-related injuries while Jo studied and composed long letters to her friends back on Earth and New Vulcan.

Then, a little more than two weeks into their stay, Tirbel was attacked.

*

McCoy was in the infirmary when the warning klaxons sounded. As his patient's condition was still critical – the man had suffered severe burns and abrasions in an explosion barely an hour earlier – he did not look up. "Bit late for that," he muttered to Nurse Trahn, who was waiting with bags of blood and the dermal regenerator.

"That's not about the explosion," she said, her voice heavy with concern. "Just a minute, Doctor." He heard her cross to the communicator and say, "This is Trahn in infirmary. What's going on up there?"

McCoy heard a burst of static. Then an agitated voice: "Raiders – just broke atmo. Giving us an hour to evac. Drop whatever you're doing and get to the shuttles. Stationmaster Hartin's orders."

"Shit!" said Trahn. "Shit, _shit._ Doctor McCoy, we've got to go."

"You go."

A long silence followed. McCoy glanced over his shoulder. Trahn stood there, her dark eyes wide, her lips curved in an uncertain frown, as if he'd just spoken gibberish.

" _Go_ ," he said, or heard someone say with his voice; he was feeling curiously detached. "Go, if you have to. This man can't be moved, and he certainly can't be taken aboveground. Those winds will kill him." He turned back to his patient.

After a moment, Trahn found her voice. It shook. "You could be killed if you stay."

"'Could' being the operative word."

"No, _killed_ being the operative word. Doctor—"

"You have a little less than an hour," he said again, his eyes on the injured man's vitals. "If there's something else you need to do, go do it. Otherwise, help me until then."

Not quite fifteen minutes later, he heard footfalls in the corridor. The door to the infirmary burst open. "Daddy!" Joanna's voice struck him between the shoulder blades, heavy as a mallet. "Daddy, didn't you hear? They're loading up the shuttles. I got some of your stuff from the rooms. We gotta go."

He could see her without having to turn around; in her loose-fitting lavender jumpsuit, and with her brown hair pulled back in a messy braid, she looked much younger than fifteen. Her dark eyebrows – the same shape as his own – would be arched expectantly over her green eyes. She broke his heart. But then, he'd had his heart broken plenty of times in the thirty-seven years he'd been alive.

"Go with the others, Jo," he said. "Go with Nurse Trahn. She'll take you to the shuttle."

"Wait, but – " Again, he did not have to turn in order to see her expression. "But you'll be right behind us, won't you? Daddy?" she said when he didn't reply. Then: "Daddy, you're _not_ staying."

"Joanna." His voice was ragged. "This man has third degree burns over eighty percent of his body. He needs new _skin_."

"So, take him with us."

"I can't. He wouldn't survive the move. Not in his condition."

"So, leave him!"

Leave him. How very simple. How utterly impossible. "I can't, Jo."

"Why not?" Her voice sounded thick.

"Because I'm his goddamn doctor, that's why." He turned to face her, finally. It was a mistake. Her eyes were huge and bright, her face ghostly white. "Don't, Jo," he pleaded, but the tears started to spill. _I can't look at this,_ he thought, but he couldn't make himself look away.

"No," she choked. Her hands curled at her sides. "No, you're coming with us. I don't care about him." She jutted her chin at the biobed where the patient lay. "I don't give a flying _fuck._ "

At that moment, Stationmaster Hartin entered the infirmary. He stopped just behind Joanna and looked from her to McCoy, to Nurse Trahn. "People, let's move it. I suggest just grabbing whatever you can. Particularly the medical equipment. That shit's expensive. Ah—"

With a shrill cry, Joanna launched herself at her father. She grabbed hold of his arm and clung, burying her face in the fabric of his scrubs. "You're coming," she sobbed, her voice muffled, "I don't care, you're coming…"

"Jo." He tried gently to push her away, but her grip only tightened. "Jo, please listen to me. If I leave, this man will die. Painfully. If I stay, there's a chance for him. And for me. Think about it. These raiders, whoever they are, they're letting you all go. They're not interested in a fight. They don't want bodies. They want… whatever the hell they want. I don't know and I don't care. The point is, they're not killers. There's no reason…"

She twisted his arm. Hard. It shut him up.

She lifted her face. The anguish in her eyes struck at his heart like knives. Her words hurt even more: "You promised. I'll never forgive you, if you stay. I'll hate you. I swear, I'll hate you forever and I'll never forgive you. Never. I won't care if you live or die, I'll hate you no matter what. _Please._ "

His eyes never leaving her face, McCoy took his hypospray out of the pocket of his scrubs and jabbed it into her neck. She went limp instantly and he caught her, sweeping her up into his arms. For a moment, he held her close against his heart. Then he turned to Hartin. "Take her," he said, his voice wrung dry of emotion. "Tell her I love her more than anything."

"Tell her yourself," Hartin snapped.

"Take her," McCoy insisted, walking toward him. "Keep her safe. Once you clear the planet's orbit, send out a distress beacon. Starfleet will come and get you. Tell them she's to be placed in the care of Doctor Philip Boyce or Admiral Christopher Pike. Or Captain Kirk. James _or_ Winona. If I make it out of here, I'll find her somehow."

"You're an asshole," Hartin said. "Is that what Starfleet trains you to be?"

"No," said McCoy. "It's just me." He transferred Joanna to Hartin's waiting arms. Already feeling bereft, he touched her forehead, brushing away a strand of dark hair. "Go."

Hartin left and Trahn followed without a backward glance.

McCoy dropped the hypospray back into his pocket and sighed. "Fuck." The klaxons continued. On the biobed, the patient moaned. McCoy turned back to him. "Well, Mister—" he began, then stopped. He'd forgotten the patient's name, he realized. _Benjamin Childress,_ his chart read, _age 37, planet of origin: Earth._

"Well," said McCoy. "How about that?" He retrieved the dermal regenerator, which Trahn had abandoned, and got to work.

*

By the time the raiders – whoever the hell they were, really – arrived, Childress was still in no shape to be moved, so McCoy kept on working. He ignored the thunder of running feet on the levels above, the crashes as furniture and equipment were turned over. He found it harder to ignore his own rapid heartbeat and the aches in his neck, the small of his back, and his ankles. He was used to long surgeries; he'd once spent half a day – literally half a day – piecing Jim Kirk back together. Now…

 _But Joanna is safe,_ he told himself. It didn't matter that she hated him, that she'd never forgive him for breaking his promise. She was safe. Nothing else mattered. Trahn and Hartin would see that she made it back to Earth. Pike would look after her, and if not him, then Boyce or even Admiral Archer. He imagined her seated in Archer's elegant dining room with its sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean. McCoy and a few other med students had eaten there once. There'd been canapés and good champagne in fluted glasses. For some reason, the details stood out sharply in his memory. He imagined Archer's beloved beagles frisking at Joanna's feet, clamoring for her attention. She adored dogs.

 _God, I'm sorry, Jo._

For the first time in his adult life, he hated being a doctor.

 _I don't buy that,_ said a voice in his head, one that sounded remarkably like Jim Kirk's. _Not for a second. You're like the first guy I ever met who genuinely loved what he did. And hated just about everything else about himself. You're telling me that if you_ weren't _a doctor, you'd just've left this poor asshole? That's not who you are, Bones._

"So, who am I?" he muttered.

 _You're the guy who honestly gives a shit. Remember? You're Joanna's father, whether she likes it or not. You were right about kids, by the way. It is like walking around with your heart in your hand. God, you should see my kid. Cutest thing ever. And you know, I get the protective thing and the anxious thing. I also get the wanting to show off and be a hero thing._

"You always wanted to show off and be a hero," McCoy said. "Even before you became a father."

 _I'm not just talking about me here. You give a shit and you want to be the morally righteous guy. Makes you kind of a hypocrite, though. You'd never've left Joanna in danger. Or me. Even if we'd had something important to do. I can tell you this because you're my friend._ Now he could almost see Jim, lounging in the chair on the other side of the biobed. A curious light shone in those blue, blue eyes. He tipped his head thoughtfully. _D'you think we could've been more than friends?_

"I think maybe we were," said McCoy. "Exactly _what_ we were, I don't know. But I think we were always more than friends."

 _But less than something else._ Jim looked up at him through the shadows of his long lashes. _Am I gonna see you again, Bones?_

"Good God, Jim, I hope—"

The infirmary door flew open then. He hadn't bothered locking it. He cast a quick, disinterested look over his shoulder. The raiders – five of them – were human men. They were dressed uniformly in dull grays and browns – not in _uniform_ , but as if some thought had been given to their appearance as a group. They all had similar glances as well: wary, predatory. They were armed with phaser rifles.

McCoy turned back to Childress. "Take whatever you want," he said, impressed with his own calmness. But he supposed he'd faced worse than men as CMO on the _Enterprise_. "Just leave these things here." He indicated the bags of blood, the syringes, and the sedatives, which he'd arranged on the table beside the biobed. He held the dermal regenerator in his hands.

"Holy shit," said one of the men behind him. His accent was thick and unfamiliar. "All right, men. Get busy." As the others set to work – McCoy supposed – filling their pockets with supplies from the shelves and cabinets that lined the infirmary walls, the man who'd spoken drew close to McCoy's elbow and peered down at the biobed.

"Holy fucking shit," he said in a conversational tone. "We gave you time to evac and you stayed for this charred piece of meat? You're a fucking idiot."

"He'll live," McCoy said. "I just need time."

"You shoulda gone." The man's voice buzz liked a saw, much too close to McCoy's ear.

"Good God, man," McCoy said, "there's no need to throw away life. I just need _time_."

"No, really," said the man, "you shoulda gone."

He elbowed McCoy sharply in the ribs, causing him to lose both his breath and his footing. He fell and then the man was on top of him, wrestling the dermal regenerator from his hands. The rest, or maybe just one or two, joined him; McCoy would never be sure of the exact number. He fought back and he fought dirty because fuck it, they were armed and he wasn't. He kicked and he flailed and he'd have bitten if any part of them had come close enough to his mouth.

He didn't have a chance. They pinned him to the floor and rolled him onto his stomach. One of them pressed a knee into the small of his back. Another held his left wrist, and a third man held his right. He clawed at the floor, which he knew was useless, but fuck it, _fuck_ it. He didn't want to die.

A fourth man sauntered over with his phaser rifle. McCoy froze. He craned his neck to see the man's face because he'd once told someone – Jim? – that if anyone ever did kill him, he wanted to be looking right into his murderer's face while it happened. He'd probably been drunk at the time. He'd probably been trying – unconsciously – to impress Jim.

The man turned the phaser rifle over and brought the butt of it down – hard – on McCoy's right hand. He felt small bones snap and splinter. He felt skin tear. He bit his bottom lip until it bled and squeezed his eyes against the pain that shot up his arm. The man lifted the rifle high, then smashed it down again.

He might have done it a third time. If he did, it was after McCoy passed out.

*

They took almost everything, McCoy discovered when the pain rousted him from unconsciousness – minutes or hours later, he couldn't tell. What they didn't take, they smashed, and that included the computers and the clock on the wall. Stumbling to his feet, holding his broken hand close, he tried the door. They'd melted the locking mechanism with their phasers; there was no way out.

" _Fuck_ ," he muttered.

The pain in his hand was worse than anything he'd ever experienced – and he'd experienced quite a lot, growing up in Savannah, serving on the _Enterprise_. He'd been thrown from horses, he'd been shot at, stabbed. He'd had bottles broken over his head. The life of an _Enterprise_ senior officer was never dull.

This was worse. This pain was like a living thing that was slowly devouring him, fingertips first. He could hardly _think_ for the pain. He knew that each broken bone had a name, but he couldn't remember them. He could barely remember his own name. He tried for professional detachment as he stole a glance at his hand. The sight of it made him sick; it didn't look like a _hand_.

Ruthlessly, he swallowed against the wave of nausea and tore his glance away. He was cold, he realized. He touched his forehead; his fingertips came away sticky with blood. They must have hit him in the head after he'd blacked out. How… thoughtful. So, smashed right hand, probably a concussion. What else?

He touched his neck. His skin was cool and clammy, his pulse rapid. _Do not go into shock_ , he told himself sternly, even as his legs began to tremble. He tried to breathe deeply. _Do not go into shock._

He looked at Childress. The man was dead, shot in the head with a phaser rifle. Just as well, thought McCoy. It would've been quick. And at least he hadn't died alone, even if he hadn't been aware.

 _I am going to die alone._

He sank to the floor, drew his legs up to his chest and dropped his head against his knees. Blood smeared on his scrubs, stood out darkly against the pale blue material. He blinked at it dumbly. The throbbing of his hand seemed to send ripples of pain out into room, which then rebounded. He felt them all around him, and with every part of his body. It all hurt.

He tried to think about Jim because – why the hell not? If he was going to die, he might as well die thinking about someone he loved.

 _There. I said it. Thought it. Does it even matter anymore?_

And he couldn't bring himself to think about Joanna.

So he imagined Jim seated across from him, arms hugged to his chest, blue eyes sad. Through the haze of pain, he thought that Jim looked younger than thirty-one, looked closer to the way he had when they'd first met on that shuttle in the Riverside Shipyards: bruised and rueful, but full of puppyish grace and just – blazing with life and possibility. "Phalanges," Jim said.

"What?"

"Phalanges. Finger bones. You were trying to remember a few minutes ago, and you couldn't. Proximal phalanx, middle phalanx, distal phalanx. Carpals. Metacarpals. Don't ask me which ones you broke: I'm a captain, not a doctor."

"You're an asshole. Shut up."

"Leonard Horatio McCoy. Still the least sexy name I've ever heard. Except for that _chulfa_ herder we met on Penteb II. What the hell was his name? Beutemius something… Anyway, it was unsexy."

"Stop, Jim. Please. I can't listen to this."

"Well," said Jim. "What _do_ you want to talk about?"

"I don't know. Tell me about your kid. Do you have a son or a daughter?"

Jim smirked. "You know this is all your imagination, right? I can't just say something you don't know. I mean, I could, but that would just be you making shit up. Hey, hey," he said, his voice softening. He unfolded his long legs and crawled across the floor to where McCoy huddled. "Shh." He reached out with his hand and McCoy imagined the brush of fingertips against his cheek. "You're shaking again. You just have to hold on. Come on, do you think there's a universe where I wouldn't come to get you? Don't think about the pain."

"That's all there is," McCoy said bleakly. "They took everything else."

"Really?" said Jim

No, McCoy realized with a small shock. They hadn't taken everything. They'd missed the hypospray in his pocket.

He pulled it out and studied it. There was enough sedative left for a few small doses, he decided. And enough for one lethal dose. "Jim," he began, but Jim was gone.

McCoy gripped the hypospray feverishly and swallowed hard. He tried to think. He was alone here. He had no means of contacting anyone, not with his computer lying in pieces. Hartin and the other miners had probably already written him off as dead, and Joanna—

He bit back a cry of pain, squeezed his eyes shut, and pressed his forehead to his knees as a fresh wave of nausea swept over him.

 _Joanna._

So, he'd broken his promise to her. Well, he'd also broken his promise to Winona Kirk. Sure, he'd loved her son, still loved her son, but he'd left him. He'd broken his promises to Jocelyn too: to love and to honor and all that crap. Until death.

Fuck, were there any promises he'd _kept?_

First, do no harm. All right, he'd certainly tried to keep that one. And look at where it had led.

He yanked his head up and stared at the hypospray. One quick jab…

And yet.

 _You have a good heart, Doctor McCoy. You would do well to listen to it._

 _You just have to hold on._

"I'm not giving up," he said. "But Jesus Christ, Jim, you wanna hurry it up."

The _thing_ that was gnawing on his hand, or what was left of his hand, looked up at him with eyes that were black holes. _He doesn't know you're here. He could be anywhere._ The voice tore into him, left him gasping. Still, he forced himself to say aloud:

"That's just the point." And he actually laughed, albeit weakly. "He could be anywhere. The _Enterprise_ could be on its way here right now. The universe wants me on that ship. He said so." His eyesight was beginning to blur.

 _The universe doesn't work like that. At least, you don't believe it does._

"I believe it does… for him."


	5. Chapter 5

Joanna awoke. She was in an unfamiliar bed and there were noises all around her. As she lay there with her eyes shut, breathing slowly, the noises became voices. Human voices, speaking her language. She tried to lift her head and was struck with dizziness. Her stomach roiled. She whimpered in discomfort and confusion.

Almost immediately, she heard what sounded like a curtain being drawn aside. Then there was a cool hand on her forehead and a woman saying gently, "Sweetheart, it's all right. You're safe."

 _Sweetheart._ That was what her dad called her. Suddenly she remembered what had happened. She sat up too quickly and choked back a sob as a bolt of pain slammed into her skull.

"Slow down," the woman said, her hands on Joanna's shoulders. "Shh, there's no need to rush. You're safe on board the _Enterprise._ You're just coming out of sedation, that's all. It affects people in different ways."

"The _Enterprise_ ," Joanna muttered, not quite believing what she'd heard. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her bottom lip.

"There, there." The woman's hands were on her back now, moving in slow, soothing circles. "Do you feel sick to your stomach?"

Joanna nodded quickly.

"That sometimes happens too," the woman said. "You're just having a strong reaction. All right. I'll get you something to help with that. I'll be right back. My name's Nurse Ryan, by the way. What's yours?"

But Joanna didn't reply, and after a moment, Nurse Ryan got up and left. As soon as she was gone, Joanna slid off the bed. She almost stumbled when her feet touched the ground, but she turned and gripped the side of the bed and just held herself upright until she was pretty sure she that could walk.

At least she was still wearing her lavender jumpsuit, and not some dumb, ugly hospital gown, she thought as she pushed the curtain aside. She knew that it was childish to care about such things at a time like this, but she couldn't help it. _All right,_ she thought, sucking in a deep, steadying breath. _Gotta find someone in gold. Someone with some goddamn authority._

She saw plenty of people in the orange jumpsuits of the Tirbel miners. She didn't care about them. She saw quite a few people in the blue of Starfleet science and medical officers. One or two of them shot curious glances her way, but she evaded them. Finally, she caught sight of a man in command gold. He was standing by a desk, talking to that asshole Hartin.

"Hey," Joanna said as she neared them. " _Hey_!"

The man in gold turned and Joanna almost choked on her breath. Of course she recognized him. All those news reports she'd watched, and that one long transmission with her dad. In the back of her head, she knew she ought to be awed. Captain Kirk was a legend in his own lifetime. And gorgeous. Though at the moment he looked kind of irritated by whatever Hartin had been telling him.

She didn't have time for awe. She grabbed at his wrist, seized it before he could pull away, and clung tightly. "Captain, you gotta go back to Tirbel. My dad's still down there. Y'all can't just leave him, like _they_ did." She jerked a shoulder in Hartin's direction.

Captain Kirk looked at her blankly, and Joanna thought that maybe he didn't understand her. Her voice was coming out kind of funny still, all thick and shaky. Her legs were still wobbly. So was her stomach. "Oh God," she muttered, clutching at him, "I think I might throw up."

"There you are," said Nurse Ryan, coming up behind her. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

"You _left_ someone back there?" said Kirk. His tone was icy; the question was directed at Hartin.

"He chose to stay behind," the Stationmaster huffed. "It was his own damn skin. There's no point in going back for him. He's gotta be dead by now. If he weren't, he'd've sent word."

Nurse Ryan put a hand on Joanna's shoulder.

" _No_!" Joanna screamed, jerking away from the touch, digging her fingers into the captain's sleeve. Ignoring everyone but him, ignoring the hot tears that streamed down her cheeks, she said pleadingly, "Captain, you _gotta_ go back an' get him. He's not dead, he can't be. He just needs help. Dammit, he's a doctor, not a hero!"

Kirk's muscles tensed and something changed in his eyes. Joanna thought it was like clouds disappearing. The look he gave her was piercing; it seemed to zing right past her face, into her soul, and she knew that he knew her.

He pulled her to him and held her against his side. Then he took his communicator out of his pocket, flipped it open and said, "Bridge, this is Kirk. Mister Sulu, take us back to Adhara III, warp eight. The K'uloaans can wait. Mister Spock, meet me in the transporter room."

"I'm goin' with you," Joanna insisted.

"Of course you are," said Kirk. She kind of loved him when he said that.

*

He meant only as far as the transporter room. Joanna didn't love him when she realized that. "You gotta let me go with you," she said as she watched him take his place beside Spock on the transporter pad. Her fingers curled against her thighs. "You gotta."

"That would be inadvisable," said Spock.

She scowled at him.

Kirk said, "Your dad'd kill me if I took you anywhere dangerous. Stay with Scotty. We'll let you know when we're ready to beam back up. We'll be back shortly. We'll get him back, Jo. Promise."

She really hated that word, she decided, as she watched Kirk and Spock disappear.

*

They might only have been gone for half an hour, but it felt like forever. Joanna couldn't sit still; she paced the transporter room, avoiding Mister Scott's concerned glances, shrugging aside his offers to explain the whole beaming thing. She _got_ it; she'd gone to school and she wasn't dumb. She didn't mean to be rude, but at the moment all she could think about was her dad and those awful things she'd said.

 _He can't be dead,_ she told herself. _Hartin's an asshole and he's wrong. He's not dead. It wouldn't be fair._

She knew damn well that life wasn't fair. In the last two years she'd lost her dog Alfred, her mom, and her stepdad, all of whom she'd loved. She'd lost most of her Georgia friends. Not to death, maybe, but she'd lost them just the same. Her new friends, T'laria and Sairus, were far away on New Vulcan and she didn't know when she'd see them again. That jerk Stephen Chang had dumped her a week before Valentine's Day, which also happened to be two weeks before her birthday. She knew all about unfair.

Her dad couldn't be dead. He couldn't die thinking she hated him. That would be beyond unfair, that would be… She couldn't articulate, even in her own head, how monstrously, hideously unfair that would be.

"Please," she whispered, forgetting that Mister Scott was right there, "please, please…"

Then the comm crackled to life. "This is Kirk. Three to beam aboard. Have a med team ready with a stretcher."

Joanna's heart froze.

"Aye, relaying your message to sickbay," said Scott. "Stand by for beaming."

After that, everything seemed to happen very quickly. A med team rushed in with a stretcher just as Kirk and Spock reappeared on the transporter pad. Spock had her dad in his arms, and Joanna cried out and started to run forward because her dad's eyes were closed and he wasn't moving; there was blood on his face, his scrubs, and his gauze-swathed hand. But Kirk got in her way. He took hold of her shoulders and held her tightly and wouldn't let her go, even though she thrashed and yelled at the top of her lungs. He held her, and maybe he was trying to tell her something, but she didn't care, she wouldn't listen.

"He's not dead," she sobbed. "He can't be dead, he's not—"

It wasn't until after her dad had been laid on the stretcher and carried away that she actually heard what Kirk was saying, and understood:

"He's _not_ dead, Joanna. He's just unconscious. He'll be fine. He has a concussion, but – that's minor. McCoys have hard heads. He hurt his hand pretty badly, but they'll fix it. He's going to be fine. Just _hold still._ " He punctuated his last words with a shake so forceful it set her teeth clacking together.

She stopped writhing and looked up at him through her tears.

"You and I need to talk," he said.

It was only then that she noticed how worn out he looked, how heartsick.

*

Joanna wanted to follow her dad to sickbay, and Kirk promised that he'd take her there – she hissed at the word promise – but not until after he was out of surgery. "And they'll tell us _exactly_ when that is, Jo," he said. "I promise."

She really, _really_ hated that word.

He brought her to his own quarters and amused her – despite everything – by making her wait in the doorway while he shoved books and things into neat stacks on his desk, and picked the sofa cushions up off the floor. "I wasn't expecting guests," he said apologetically as he finally gestured for her to enter.

"My room's always a mess too," she said as the door closed behind her. "Daddy's always telling me—" Her throat closed up and she felt the sting of tears once more.

"Do you need anything?" Kirk asked.

"Maybe a bathroom," she said, embarrassed.

"Here." He showed her where it was, through a door in the other room. "It's a mess, too. Sorry. Take your time. If you want to shower, there are clean towels in the cabinet under the sink."

She nodded, but all she wanted to do was relieve herself and splash some cold water in her face. After she'd done that, she took a quick peek around the captain's bedroom. It was smaller than her own back in Savannah, and there wasn't much in it, just a bed and a dresser and some bookshelves. There were pictures in frames on the dresser. One of them was of a family. The man looked enough like Kirk to be his brother, so the woman was probably his sister-in-law and the three boys seated around them had to be his nephews. The second picture was of a very small baby in yellow swaddling clothes. She couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl, but it had the biggest blue eyes she'd ever seen and a swirl of pale blond hair. The third picture gave her a start because her dad was in it. He didn't look too happy, probably because the sun was shining right in his face, or maybe it was because he was sitting on the edge of a cliff. Joanna recognized the mountain behind him, but she couldn't remember the name of it. Half-Dome? Half-Circle? Something like that. She had a vague memory of a postcard from her dad, describing a hiking trip he'd taken back in his Academy days. _I don't love heights,_ he'd written, _but sweetheart, you should see the stars at night._

Despite his slightly sour expression, he looked young, Joanna thought. She touched her fingertips to the picture, and wondered why the captain had it in his bedroom. She had an idea, but it was a little weird.

She went back into the other room and found Captain Kirk seated at his desk. He had a PADD in front of him, but he wasn't really looking at it. He glanced up when she said, "Hey."

"Hey, yourself." He was back on his feet in an instant, motioning her toward the sofa. "Can I get you anything?" he asked as she sank into the cushions. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

She shook her head.

"Are you tired? We _need_ to talk, but if you want to sleep—"

"No," she said. He was so desperate to do something for her, but she didn't want anything from him right now. Her dad was down in sickbay getting operated on. People sometimes died in surgery, she knew. People died, even when there were doctors and nurses all around them, and her dad still thought she hated him, that she'd never forgive him.

And the thing was, a part of her didn't want to forgive him. He'd promised never to leave her, and then he'd gone and broken his promise. He'd jabbed her with a fucking hypospray! He deserved her wrath.

She felt something big and ugly twisting in her belly. She wanted to curl into a tight little ball and just disappear between the sofa cushions. She wanted her mom.

She shivered.

"Are you cold?" Kirk asked. Dammit, he was still hovering near her. "Hang on."

He went into his bedroom and came out with a bunched up gray sweatshirt.

"I don't wanna borrow your _clothes,_ " Joanna said.

"It's not mine."

He tossed it to her. She caught it and smoothed it out across her knees. Across the front, in big blue letters, it said STARFLEET MEDICAL.

And she got it. Really. And it _was_ weird, but it felt good too, like that first big gulp of air after you've been holding your breath under water. She hugged the sweatshirt tightly to her chest and blurted, "You love him. You love my dad."

"Joanna…" There was genuine pain in Kirk's voice and in his eyes. But he didn't deny it. Of course he didn't, because it was true and her dad always said that Captain Kirk was an honest man.

"It's okay," she went on hurriedly. "It's okay, he loves you too." She snorted derisively at his astonished look. "What, I'm not stupid. He doesn't have a picture of you in his bedroom and I don't think he keeps your clothes around, but I've seen his face when he talks about you. It's like… you wouldn't exactly call it a smile, but you kind of couldn't call it anything else, either. It's like… like turning on a light, saying your name around him. I always used to think he stayed away from Savannah because of my mom, but that wasn't it at all. He stayed away because of _you_. He doesn't know, does he? Are you gonna tell him?"

"Joanna," Kirk said again, holding his hands out to her in a gesture of supplication. "It's not that simple."

"You gotta tell him," she said, and she felt her face getting hot. The big, ugly thing inside her twisted sharply. She didn't want to start crying again, but she thought that she might. "You gotta because he thinks I hate him. And I still kind of do."

She blinked rapidly. And Captain Kirk, Captain James T. Fucking Kirk, hero of the Federation, sat down next to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and held her against his chest while she clutched her dad's sweatshirt. She didn't cry again, much to her relief. But a shudder went through her, then another and another, and she began to be afraid they'd never stop, and she'd just break apart.

"Shh," Kirk said gently. "You don't hate him, Jo. Come on. You can't hate someone who puts everyone's safety before his own. You can be angry as hell, but you can't hate him. You'll forgive him. You have to forgive him."

"Why?"

"Because he's going to need it. He knows how badly he hurt you and he hates himself for it. Listen, everyone screws up. Even grownups. Sometimes someone you love screws up so badly that… all you can do is forgive them. And he _is_ a hero, incidentally. He's saved the life of just about everyone on this ship, including – especially – mine."

"He's a doctor," she grumbled. "That's his _job_."

"Well… under certain circumstances, just doing your job can be pretty damn heroic." His voice had a curious hitch, which she wondered at.

"If I forgive him," she said slowly, "are you gonna tell him you love him?"

Kirk was quiet.

"Oh, come _on_ ," said Joanna, exasperated. "I know you're men and all, and I'm guessing the baby in that picture is yours, but you're not married, are you? You're not wearing a ring."

"I'm not married," said Kirk, and the faint ripple of amusement in his tone made her blood boil.

"So _tell_ him. Tell him and make him stay with you on the _Enterprise_. I know he liked it here more than he ever liked living in Savannah."

"Joanna," Kirk said again in a strained voice, "it's not that simple."

"Because of me," she muttered. "He left because of me, and he won't go back because of me. 'Cause I'm too young to be left alone. It's not fair. I'm old enough to follow him around to a bunch of dumb planets, but I'm too young to be on a starship. That doesn't make any _sense._ " She lifted her head and glared at him, as if it were his fault somehow. "It's a dumb rule."

"I agree," he said.

"Sometimes, you gotta break the rules. That's what old Spock told me when I met him on New Vulcan."

"He did? Really?"

" _I'd_ stay on the _Enterprise_ if I were him," Joanna went on. "I wish I _could_ stay. I liked going around, seeing new planets. I mean, I've only been to four – including Earth – and I know they're not all nice like New Vulcan and Nikos's World, but I still wanna see 'em. And I don't wanna wait until I'm older. If I go back to Savannah now I know I'll just hate it 'cause I've seen what all else there is. Some of it, anyway." She thought of her small bedroom. Why, you couldn't even see the stars from her window, because of all the damn streetlights. And she'd seen a ring nebula without a telescope! She'd seen the whole sky just blazing above her, and the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling simply didn't cut it anymore. Anything could happen out here in space. _Anything._ It was the most amazing thing, and she didn't want to give it up, not for two years, not ever.

Kirk was looking at her strangely.

"What?" she said.

"Nothing," he said. "Just… thinking."

"About how to keep my dad on the _Enterprise_?"

"Yeah."

"You gotta come up with something," she said. "Promise me you will." She was testing him.

He passed. With a weary smile he said, "Jo… I can't promise you anything."

She loved him after all, she decided.

*

He talked her into eating and drinking something. Just a bowl of split pea soup and some lemonade. And an apple. And a slice of pecan pie. It wasn't half as good as her mom's, but it filled her up nicely. After that, he let her borrow one of his books; he had a pretty impressive collection of actual paper books, with lots of histories and classic novels. He worked at his desk while she read _Watership Down_. Or tried to read. It was hard to concentrate on the print. Eventually, she just gave up and let her mind wander.

She must have fallen asleep on the sofa, because next thing she knew, Kirk was shaking her awake. "Hey," he said as she blinked up at him, "I just got a message from sickbay. Your dad's in recovery. They're keeping him sedated. In fact, it'll probably be a while before he's awake. But I thought you'd want to know."

"Can I go and see him now?"

"Of course," he said.

*

Sickbay was quiet. All the Tirbel miners had been moved to their own temporary quarters. Joanna was glad. They'd left her dad to die; she didn't want to see them again, ever.

A slender, black-haired woman in blue scrubs was waiting for them. "You must be Joanna McCoy," she said. "I'm Doctor Desai." Joanna thought she looked kind of young to be a doctor, but she had a calm, almost velvety sort of voice that actually took the keen edge off her anxiety. "Your father is this way."

She led her and Kirk to a private room. Her dad lay on a biobed, with a blanket tucked up to his chest. The blood had been washed from his face, and there was a clean white bandage stuck to his forehead, just below the hairline. He was very pale, but Joanna could see that he was breathing. His left hand rested by his side. His right hand was immobilized by a shiny, opaque shell that was hooked up to some machinery by the bed. Her heart trembled. She tried to say something, but the words wouldn't come.

"We repaired everything," Doctor Desai said. "The machine is just strengthening the bones and ligaments right now. There'll be plenty of bruising and some stiffness. He'll need some physical therapy, but if he does what he's told, he should have full function back within… I'd say a week. Two at the very most. He should be back on his feet tomorrow. Right now it's important that he sleeps. Sleep is good for healing."

Joanna swallowed and nodded.

"We'll make sure he does what he's told," Kirk said, and she flashed him the briefest of smiles.

Doctor Desai said, "I'll be nearby if you have any questions or if you need anything. Captain."

After the doctor had left, Kirk touched her shoulder and said, "See? He's going to be fine. You don't have to stay. You've got your own quarters set up now, if you want to go back to sleep or—"

"I'll stay." She'd brought her book. There was a chair by the bed. She would be all right. "Do _you_ wanna stay?"

She saw the look in his eyes. Of course he wanted to stay. But he shook his head. "No," he said, "I have… captainy things to do. And some things to think about. I'll come back when he's awake."

He'd probably have fled, but she held him with a fierce glare. Honestly, she thought. _Men._ But then he impressed her. He walked right up to the bed and, leaning over it, brushed his lips against her dad's forehead. That sent a little shiver up her spine, but in a nice way. She let him go after that.

"It figures," she said quietly, sitting down in the chair and sliding it closer to the bed. "The most gorgeous guy I ever met _would_ have a thing for _you_. Talk about unfair. It's okay, though. I approve. I get the next one, though. If he's not _too_ much older than me." Her dad didn't wake, but a crease appeared between his eyebrows. Her book forgotten, she reached out and curled her fingers around his left hand. His skin was warm, and she felt the flutter of his pulse against her fingertips.

"I forgive you, by the way. I'm still mad as hell, and you're not hearing the end of it anytime soon, but I forgive you."


	6. Chapter 6

The problem wasn't Starfleet, Jim thought. The problem was Bones. And really, he didn't need Spock and Uhura cornering him outside the turbolift, offering their advice.

"While I would not ordinarily recommend this course of action, Captain, given the circumstances, it is my opinion that—"

"What he's trying to say, Captain, is: break the rules."

Break the rules. Of course. Jim had every intention of breaking the rules in order to keep Bones – and Joanna – on his ship. He had no fear of Admiral Barnett or the rest of the top brass. He could talk them into thinking it was a good idea. Hell, he could probably talk them into thinking it was their _own_ idea. Jim was good at talking people round to his way of thinking.

Except, of course, for Leonard McCoy.

He thanked Spock and Uhura and continued down to sickbay, no plan in mind, except to be extremely convincing whenever one finally occurred to him. He hoped that would be soon. Joanna was counting on him. Damn, he liked her; she was spirited, intuitive, and she seemed to have good taste in literature. He'd always suspected they'd get along – her being a McCoy and all – though he'd imagined their first encounter quite differently: more ice cream, fewer tears.

Jim had seen her once since leaving her at her dad's bedside. After his shift yesterday, he'd gone back down to sickbay and found both McCoys asleep, he looking somewhat more peaceful and less drugged, she curled up on a cot someone had placed beside the bed. Jim had silently commended Doctor Desai or Nurse Ryan or whoever had shown the girl so much compassion.

He hadn't lingered. He'd only ducked into the room to tuck Bones's old sweatshirt – which had been left forgotten on the sofa earlier – around Joanna's shoulders.

After that, he'd assigned Yeoman Barrows to check in on the girl periodically, show her to her quarters when she awoke, and make sure she had everything she needed. He'd gone back to his own quarters to sleep. Finding that impossible, he'd lain awake thinking until, sometime before what would have been dawn if they weren't in space, he'd fallen into a fitful doze.

He was still thinking when he arrived in sickbay and found McCoy not only awake but sitting up in bed, apparently deep in conversation with Joanna. She'd exchanged her lavender jumpsuit for a Starfleet uniform, a gold one. He wondered if the color had simply been her only option, or if she'd chosen it because she thought it gave her some sort of authority over her dad.

Whatever the reason, Jim thought, she looked pretty imposing, especially with that hypospray clutched in her hand. She rose when he entered, and flashed him a smile that was both pleased and inquisitive.

"Could I have a few minutes alone with your dad?" Jim asked, avoiding McCoy's eyes.

"Oh, of course," she said, far too sweetly. She handed him the hypospray. "Use that if he tries to do anything stupid." Then she tossed her hair and flounced out of there like she was anticipating… Jim wasn't exactly sure. Like she thought he knew what he was doing, maybe. He looked at the hypospray. Then he looked at the man in the biobed.

"Those skirts," McCoy grumbled, "are too damn short."

"Funny," said Jim, "I don't remember you complaining about them before."

"Never saw my fifteen-year-old daughter in one of them, before."

"Better get used to it. She's Starfleet material. She saved your life."

"She does that."

"She'll be someone's CMO someday," Jim went on. "I just have a feeling."

"Well, I pity her future crewmen." McCoy rubbed at the side of his neck with his left hand and Jim saw the faint brown mark. "She jabs hard."

"I think you're a special case. How's the hand?"

McCoy held up his right hand. It was covered with dark bruises, and Jim could see the thin red lines the laser scalpel had made. But those would fade with time, and it looked like a hand again. He didn't think he'd ever forget the way it had looked when they'd found McCoy on the floor of the mining station's infirmary. Jim had seen worse injuries. Hell, he'd _had_ worse injuries. But the sight of _Bones_ in so much pain… Maybe it was just as well he didn't know the raiders' identity; he'd have chased them all across charted and uncharted space. He'd have done it if they'd done far less.

 _I could have lost you, you idiot. And I can't lose you._

To hide his discomfort, Jim said in a tone that he hoped didn't sound overly jovial, "She'll need a good captain to keep her in line, though. Joanna, I mean."

"You have one in mind, I take it."

"I do." Jim set the hypospray down, then lowered himself into the chair Joanna had vacated and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his laced fingers. "In twenty years or so. Gloria Georgette Kirk – no hyphen – Marcus. Gigi." Sunlight pooled in his chest as he said the name, like it always did, and he couldn't help smiling.

"Gigi?" McCoy said softly, his lips twitching. "Carol had a girl?"

"You almost sound surprised."

"I… I am. I don't know why. I shouldn't be, considering it was fifty-fifty."

"Yeah, well. My mother's thrilled. Not that she doesn't love my brother's kids, but… I guess after two sons and three grandsons, she really wanted another girl in the family. I think I finally one-upped Saint Sam."

"You didn't do that when you became captain of the flagship at twenty-five?"

Jim shrugged. "You know my mother. Anyway, I figure that with our combined looks and brains – Carol's and mine – and your Joanna to keep her alive and sane, in twenty years or so, Gigi Kirk Marcus will be taking over Starfleet, if not the galaxy."

"Amazing," said McCoy. "Carol only wanted your sperm, and she ended up letting you stick your name on the birth certificate."

"It was a precautionary measure," Jim explained quickly. The last thing he wanted was for Bones to think he was involved with Carol romantically. She sent him frequent updates and he fully intended to be part of their daughter's life, but they weren't meant for each other and they both knew it. Possibly they'd always known it. "If anyone even thinks of fucking with her, they'll know who they'll be answering to. At least until she can kick _my_ ass. Which, if Joanna's any indication, shouldn't be for another ten years at the very least."

"Oh, you'd be surprised. I may not've been around much, but Jo's had me under her thumb most of her life."

"Noted," said Jim, remembering the first time he'd held Gigi, and what McCoy had told him back in October. She'd only curled her tiny pink hand around his forefinger, but she might as well have been grasping his soul. "All they'll need," he went on, aware that his cheeks had reddened, "is a Vulcan to tell them when they're being illogical."

McCoy smiled. It was a genuine smile that lit the green flecks in his eyes, and Jim ached to touch his face, his hands, anything. It had been so long since he'd touched Bones. Except for that one kiss in front of Joanna, and yesterday didn't count. Prying the empty hypospray from his fingers, stroking his hair while he muttered half-deliriously about displaced fractures and betraying Joanna and Spock searched the medkit for more sedatives and gauze bandages – it didn't count.

"What is it?" Jim asked, pushing back the memory. "That smile?"

"Just thinking. My last week on New Vulcan, I delivered a baby girl."

"Well, there you go."

"Hmm. Spock – old Spock, from that other timeline – seemed… pleased, I think, when I told him what her parents decided to call her. I didn't think much of it at the time, but… He knows things."

"Yeah, he does," Jim said. "Sometimes he even deigns to tell you what he knows. For example, where you and Joanna would be. That's why we were in the Adhara system, in case you were wondering. He didn't say you'd be there, of course, just that… it might be worth our while to take a detour."

"That green-blooded, meddling old…"

"He wants you on my ship." He hadn't intended to get to that so quickly; it just slipped out. McCoy gave him a look that said plainly: _This again?_ so Jim just plunged on. " _I_ want you on my ship. The whole goddamn universe wants you on my ship, apparently. So how come you're not on my ship?"

"I am," McCoy said dryly.

"You know what I mean." Jim slid closer. He reached out and caught McCoy's left wrist. He felt him flinch, but held on. "Come on, you know exactly what I mean. It's not about being CMO, although – you can have that too. Desai's great, but she doesn't have your experience, and… given my tendencies, I think she'd _rather_ someone else were in charge of sickbay. And Chapel's still working on her degree. But I'm not talking about that. You know what I want. I think you want the same thing."

McCoy flushed. He dropped his head back against the pillows and glowered up at Jim. "It's not that—"

"Simple, I know," Jim cut in. "We'll figure it out. Somehow. I know Joanna's still in high school, but – there are distance-learning programs. And she'd have the best tutors right here on the _Enterprise_ : you and Spock for science and math, Uhura for languages, me for history. I bet Chekov would be happy to talk her deaf about Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. We could work something out. She could be – I don't know – some sort of intern. She'd earn her keep. She wouldn't go on away missions unless they were perfectly safe. And I know what you're going to say: it's never perfectly safe. But you brought her all the way out here. You're obviously willing to take _some_ risks with her. And it's not like nothing bad ever happens on Earth. If it were, we wouldn't be in this mess." McCoy's jaw tightened, so he went on hurriedly, " _And_ \- if you remember - _I_ wasn't supposed to be on the _Enterprise_ , either, originally. Fuck Starfleet's rules and regulations. In a year and a half she'll be old enough for the Academy – or college, if she wants to do that first – and then it won't matter. She'll blow them away with everything she's going to learn out here. I'll just save the galaxy a few extra times. No one'll give a shit. Fuck, Chekov was fourteen when he started. And I know she wants to stay. I—"

" _Jim_." With a constricted-sounding sigh, McCoy reached over and covered Jim's hand with his right one. The bruises were dark as storm clouds, shot through with red lightning. "Drop the logic. Please. It's not _that_."

Jim drew a deep breath. "What is it, then?"

McCoy looked up at him, and Jim froze a little because he knew that look. He'd seen it the night McCoy had come to tell him that he was leaving, the night they'd shared a bottle of good Scotch and ended up screwing in Jim's bed. He hadn't understood the look back then, but he thought he did now. Longing, tangled up hopelessly in resignation.

"I can't do this anymore," McCoy said, his fingertips moving gently over Jim's knuckles. "I can't be… that guy. Not for you. You know what I mean."

Jim shook his head. "Tell me."

McCoy closed his eyes. "I can't be the guy you crash into when you need to crash."

"You can't be my best friend?" That came out all wrong. What was he, twelve?

"That's not what I meant. I mean… God, this is going to sound stupid, but you're like a fucking star, Jim. And I'm like… a goddamn satellite. I can't do it anymore. I try to get closer, and you burn me up. Fuck, you do it even when I try to keep my distance. Like that goddamn night on the beach. Or when I told you about my ex-wife. Fuck, I'm grateful for everything you've given me, but I can't take it anymore. I can't take your charity, your—"

" _Charity?_ " Jim's grip on McCoy's wrist tightened involuntarily. The hazel eyes snapped open. "You think I've kept you with me all these years because I felt _sorry_ for you? You think I kissed you – you think I _fucked_ you out of _pity_? Jesus. You really thought that. That's what you've been thinking all year." He was shaking. Not with rage, not with astonishment, just sudden and deep fatigue. He gave McCoy's wrist a final weak squeeze, then dropped it and shoved the chair back. He stood. "It wasn't _pity_ , you fucking idiot." The words came out with an odd tenderness. McCoy stared up at him. "I never felt sorry for you. We're _both_ fucked up. Why do you think—"

He shook his head. If Bones couldn't do this anymore, neither could he. Very slowly, with a calmness he did not feel, he said, "I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you. I fucked you because I wanted to fuck you. I still do." He waited for an answer, but none came. "Fine," he said at last. "Fine. You know what I want. You need to think about what _you_ want. I'll accept it, whatever it is. Just – don't be a fucking martyr because you think I'm an asshole. I know I am, but – don't. I can change. Anything can happen. Think about what I said. Talk it over with Joanna. When you know what you want… come. And tell me. My shift's over at 2400 hours."

And then he left.

*

The rest of Jim's shift seemed endless. He couldn't concentrate on anything. Crewmen would hand him PADDs he'd try to focus, but his mind always wandered to Bones. He kept wondering if there was something more he could have said.

 _Pity? Bones, you're my fucking_ strength.

After all this time, would Bones even have believed it?

If he'd fucked it up for good…

If he had, he had. If Bones really wanted to go back to Earth or wherever Starfleet Medical needed him, Jim would abide by his choice. And he'd try to be a good friend; he'd try to be supportive. He wasn't that bloody-nosed, fucked-up twenty-two year-old anymore, in complete denial of his need for someone whose hang-ups and hidden wounds went so well with his own. He had this amazing spaceship, and a mission, and a family. He'd survive. Unless he had to look at Joanna's face, of course. He could shoulder his own disappointment, but somehow, not hers.

Spock and Uhura kept shooting glances his way. Hers were easy enough to read, and Jim supposed that Spock was wondering the same thing. Well, they could keep on wondering. He wasn't going to tell them anything until he'd had an answer from McCoy. Whatever that answer happened to be.

After his shift, he made his way slowly back to his quarters. A drink would help, he decided. A good hard drink and a long, hot shower. He didn't think he'd be able to eat or sleep, but he could stand to be a little dull-witted. And clean.

He opened the door to his quarters and almost tripped.

McCoy stood leaning against his desk. He glanced up briefly when Jim entered, then looked back down at the two picture frames he held. Jim recognized them.

"Forgot you brought that camera to Yosemite," McCoy said. With his head bowed, the brown hair spilling over his forehead, and his lashes shadowing his cheeks, his expression was hard to read. He was still pale, a fact his regulation black pants and undertunic only emphasized. "Your daughter's beautiful, Jim." There was a tender note beneath the gruffness. "Absolutely beautiful. Look at those eyes. You can almost see the little gears starting to turn. She'll take the galaxy by storm."

Jim swallowed. He wasn't ready for this. Not another conversation leading to goodbye. "Should you even be out of bed?"

McCoy looked up again. His confusion was evident. Setting the pictures down on the desk, he said, "It's after 2400. You said—"

Oh, Jesus. "No," Jim groaned, palming the door shut. "Fuck, I knew I said everything wrong. I didn't mean you had a time frame. I just meant that I'd be here after 2400 hours. God, if you need more time… I don't want you to rush into anything."

"More time?" McCoy said. "Good God, nine years is more than enough time, even for a stubborn, blind bastard like me."

Jim swallowed again, and something very cold seemed to slide down his throat. It landed in his stomach with the sharpness of a knifepoint. "I… see."

"No, you don't. I can tell you don't. And that's my fault. I just—" McCoy closed his eyes for a moment and ran a hand through his hair. When he opened his eyes again, they seemed more green than hazel. He smiled, bit his lip, and shook his head. "I'm trying, but… Jesus Christ, Jim. How the fuck do you tell your best friend you're in love with him?"

The universe seemed to pause and hold its breath.

"Obviously," Jim said, knowing he hadn't misheard, but not quite believing it at the same time, "I never did figure it out."

"You're supposed to be the genius. Look at you." McCoy pushed away from the desk and in three quick strides was standing in Jim's personal space. He placed one hand almost tentatively on Jim's hip and rested the other against the side of his neck. "You gotta help me out here, kid. At least a little. I'm bad at this." His breath was warm and fresh against Jim's lips.

A part of Jim still wasn't convinced that this wasn't some sort of dream or hallucination, some alien playing with his mind; they got such a kick out of doing that. So he put a hand on Bones's chest, both to steady himself and to feel the very real, erratic heartbeat. "Tell me about this best friend of yours," he said, with an ease he in no way felt.

The smile slid wider. "He's a cocky, arrogant prick – with commitment issues that are almost as bad as mine, and I'm pretty sure he's got some sort of hero complex to boot."

"Look who's talking. Anyway, you're… in love with this asshole?"

"Yeah," Bones said, like he was releasing a breath he'd been holding for a long, long time. "Yeah, I am. Pretty fucking deeply too."

Plenty of people had said they loved him. Some had even meant it. But no one, Jim was sure, had ever looked at him like that: at once trusting, desiring, _knowing_. He tried to be serious, but he was suddenly lightheaded. "I don't know, Bones. Not sure how I feel about you being in love with someone like that. Guy sounds like a jerk, to be honest."

"Oh, he has his moments."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean," Bones said, sliding his hand up to cup Jim's cheek, "he's the best friend I could ever imagine having. Can't even begin to tell you the number of ways he's rescued me. And I'd follow him anywhere. To the ends of the goddamn universe. Don't change, Jim." Then he kissed him. It was a very gentle kiss, just a brush of lips against lips, but it made everything real. It launched fireworks in Jim's belly.

"I kept thinking," he said in a rush, grabbing a fold of McCoy's shirt and pulling him closer still, lifting his other hand to touch the line of his jaw. "After I left you in sickbay, I couldn't stop thinking. And kicking myself in the head. About all the things I could have said or done differently. Not just today, but for _years._ I was actually thinking about some poetry. That's how crazy this was making me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He planted a quick kiss on the corner of Bones's mouth. " _Had we but world enough, and time / this coyness, doctor, were no crime._ See what I did, with coyness—"

"Mmm, show-off."

"There isn't an iota of poetry in your soul, is there, Bones?"

"That's why I need you, kid. I'm just a grumpy country doctor with no appreciation for the finer things. Unless you count Jazz and the Blues, which I know you don't." Sounding only slightly incredulous, he added, "And you actually love me for it."

"Despite it, I think," said Jim. "But, yeah. I do. Love you." The words didn't come easily. They sort of snagged on something sharp in his throat and came out almost like a cough. Which was stupid, he thought. He'd said them before; hell, he'd said them to Bones when he was being particularly ornery. And meant them every time, he realized.

He tried again, and this time the words came fluently to his lips. "I love you."

Bones kissed him again, long and deep. It was a breathtaking kiss, a deal-sealing kiss. When he finally pulled away, his voice was rough. "Forget about what I said before. Please. It was stupid. _I_ was stupid. I'd gotten so used to this idea that… It doesn't matter." He tilted Jim's head and ghosted his lips almost reverently over the pulse at his throat. "Thank you for coming to get me." The next kiss, which landed on Jim's cheek, was sweetly chaste. "Thank you for taking care of my daughter." The next kiss glanced clumsily across the bridge of Jim's nose. "Thank you for returning my shirt."

Jim laughed. "Speaking of Jo, how the hell did you get past her? I thought her plan was to hypo you if you so much as thought of leaving sickbay. Are you _sure_ you're supposed to be out of bed?"

Bones's grin was wicked. Licking Jim's lips, he said, "You have a one-track mind."

"That _isn't_ what I meant. For once in my life – that isn't what I meant. Are you sure you're all right? Don't wanna hurt you."

Bones shrugged. "Don't make me do any heavy lifting for a while."

He made a mental note to bring this up the next time Bones threatened him with restraints after an away mission injury. "Really not what I'm thinking of having you do right now."

Bones ducked his head. "As for Joanna, I told her I had some things to discuss with you and she accepted that."

"Just like that?"

"Her exact words were: 'See y'all in the morning.'"

"Well, all right, then."

Bones's right hand still rested against Jim's cheek. Carefully and tenderly, Jim took it and brought it to his lips. He heard Bones's soft hiss as his tongue flicked over the knuckles, then up the veins that stood out strongly against the bruised skin. When he reached the wrist, he turned the hand over and pressed his lips against the pulse.

"Jim…"

There was a quiet urgency in Bones's voice, and Jim lifted his head. Bones's lips caught his, and then they were practically grappling, their teeth scraping together, their tongues pushing, twisting. Hunger filled Jim, chased swiftly by a profound relief and amazement that despite everything, all their hang-ups and jagged edges, they'd made it this far.

Still, he tried to be gentle, especially after he got Bones's shirt off and saw the bruises on his chest and arms. He tried, but Bones wasn't gentle. He kissed Jim and grabbed at him as if he honestly thought he'd lose him if they broke contact for even a second. Reminding himself that Bones was the damn doctor and knew what his body could and couldn't handle, Jim let himself be cupped and caressed, licked, bitten, and sucked on. He let Bones undress him, only lifting his arms so he could get the shirts over his head, and raising his feet one at a time so he could tug off his pants, underwear, and boots. When he felt Bones's lips on his bare thighs, he slid his fingers into the soft brown hair, combing through it slowly as Bones kissed his way back up.

He was half-hard by then – they both were, he realized as Bones laid a palm against the small of his back and hitched him close – but he kept as still as he could. It wasn't his wont, but he was _tired_. And kind of overwhelmed by the events of the past two days. And it felt so good to just stand there and be – loved. He hadn't exactly been celibate since Bones had left the _Enterprise_ a year ago – if anyone needed proof, he had pictures aplenty of his Gigi – but it had been a pretty tame year, comparatively speaking. Not for lack of opportunity, and not because he'd had any real hope of getting Bones back, no matter what the universe and certain Vulcans thought was right. He'd simply figured out what he wanted, and screwing around wasn't it.

 _This_ was what he wanted, he thought as Bones kissed his mouth and tugged him toward the bed. _This_ \- running his tongue lazily over Bones's soft lips, and _this_ \- stroking his fingers down over Bones's chest and belly so he could unzip his pants. _This_. Pushing the pants and underwear down over narrow hips, curling his fingers around Bones's erection. _Thisthisthis._

In the haze of his own arousal, he forgot for a moment that they'd been apart for a reason, and that it had taken a medical emergency to bring them back together. He remembered abruptly when Bones sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and winced. Brought up short, as much by the memory as the sudden loss of contact, Jim froze. For a few seconds, all he could see was a crumpled, crushed hand, and the glitter of tears at the corners of hazel eyes.

"Sorry," Bones muttered, gripping the edge of the bed. "I thought—"

The husky, uncertain tone brought Jim back to himself. "Hey," he whispered, cupping Bones's chin and tilting his face back. He traced Bones's lower lip with the pad of his thumb. "We can slow it down, you know. We got all night. And all morning. And … God, as far as I'm concerned, we've got until Spock freaks out and sends a search party in after us. I'm not going anywhere, so don't push yourself if you need to rest. That's an order, Doctor. We understood?"

He'd thrown that last bit in to make Bones smile, and he succeeded. In all honesty, though, he'd have been content to spend the night cuddling. It wasn't his thing ordinarily, but… A smile touched his lips. There was nothing ordinary about this. Never had been. To fall asleep with his head on Bones's shoulder, just listening to his heartbeat, limbs tangled loosely… He could do that. Yeah.

"Always did like giving orders," Bones said.

"And you always liked arguing with them."

A dark eyebrow arched. "Only when they made no goddamn sense. To me," he qualified with a rueful chuckle. "And c'mon, it wasn't that often."

Jim gave him a look that said, _Fine, we'll remember it your way._ "And? How 'bout the order I just gave you?"

"Respectfully, Captain, I'm gonna have to flout this one. It's gallant," he said, stroking Jim's erection, setting off a shower of sparks behind his eyes. He put his hands on Jim's hips and pulled him closer. His breath was hot against Jim's navel, his stubble pleasantly scratchy. "But I've waited long enough."

Jim wondered if they were just going to write off what happened last year. Considering it had led to their not speaking for almost five months, he was all right with that. He was going to make a quip about selective memory, but then Bones started pressing damp, open-mouthed kisses against his skin. Every thought flew away and his knees went weak. If Bones would just move his mouth a bit lower…

But Bones had other ideas. "C'mere," he said roughly and, leaning back against the pillows, pulled Jim down on top of him.

Fuck cuddling. And fuck this passive bullshit. If they didn't pass out first, he was going to make Bones come gasping his name.

Rising to his knees, Jim finished undressing Bones. Then he spread him across the blanket and began to kiss him. He started with his lips and worked his way downward. It was like charting a new star system. He'd seen Bones naked any number of times, but never like this. The last time they'd had sex, he'd been so tightly wound up in his own insecurities that he hadn't been able to truly appreciate the man beneath his hungry lips and fingers. Bones was fucking beautiful, even with all those ugly bruises – and Jim laved each one with his tongue, as if he could wash them away, or at least turn them into something else, something more than a memory of pain.

 _They're proof that you survived. That I didn't lose you._

He spent some time on Bones's nipples as well, tugging at them gently with his teeth, teasing them to hardness while Bones shuddered beneath him. Jim felt fingers in his hair, a warm palm cupping the back of his skull. He heard, above the roar of blood in his ears, a disjointed stream of babble, and the occasional recognizable word—

 _Please, yes, so good, Jim, Jimjimjim—_

He wanted to bury himself in Bones. Just plunge into him, as deep as he could get, and fill him until they were overflowing with each other. He didn't think Bones would object – if Bones was even capable of conscious thought by that point – but he had the feeling he'd better wait until after they'd had some sleep. So he worked Bones over with just his tongue, his lips, and his fingers. And he managed to be pretty thorough. He explored and he tasted and he loved. And when he was absolutely certain that only a stroke or two more would send Bones over the edge, he pulled back and spent a moment admiring his handiwork.

Quick, shallow breaths, flushed skin, swollen lips, and pupils so dilated that only the thinnest corona of green remained.

 _God, I'm good._

It was a brief moment – Jim had needs too, and Bones was grabbing for him again, saying his name in a raspy whisper that set all his nerves alight.

So he flicked back his sweat-drenched hair and got right back to work, and this time he brought his entire body into play: tangling their fingers; kissing Bones's eyelids, his cheeks, his lips; nudging a thigh between Bones's and bucking hard; crying out as Bones thrust back and heat began to pool at the base of his spine.

The universe teetered beneath them. Jim felt it crack in the same instant Bones gasped his name, and then they were tumbling in a mess of limbs and lips and a whirlwind of stars.

*

Jim was half asleep when he felt Bones get up. "No," he protested thickly. His flailing hand caught Bones in the thigh.

"Be right back," Bones assured him. "Shh. Not going far. Captain's orders."

Jim felt Bones's fingers in his hair, and the brush of lips against his forehead. He nodded because he was too drowsy to do anything else, but his heart began to pound with an anxiety that did not ease up until Bones returned, only a few moments later, with a damp towel.

"You're a mess," Bones said, moving the towel lovingly over his thighs, his belly, his chest, and neck. Tired as he was, his body responded, arching into the caresses. "Shouldn't sleep like that. It's not hygienic."

"Mmm, you _would_ worry about something like that," Jim mumbled. "Thought for a second—"

"I know." Bones put the towel down, crawled back into bed beside him, and tugged him close. "I know," he whispered into Jim's hair. "I'm so sorry about that. Before, I just panicked—"

"I know." And he did. And it was all right because they'd found their way back to this place, this feeling. And actually, this was better than the beach. There was no cold sand beneath them, no tide dragging at their ankles like the tug of time. They'd broken free of that world's gravity and found this new one, which was neither safe nor peaceful. Not always, anyway. But Jim liked it that way. And despite all his bitching and worrying, so did McCoy. They had their own peculiar gravity to hold them together, and their own light to blaze through each other's dark corners.

Jim hooked a knee over Bones's thigh, draped an arm across his chest, and sighed into his neck. "It's okay. Made it after all, didn't we?" That wasn't quite right, he knew; that made it sound like they'd reached retirement age together, or something. Rather than attempt to explain himself better, he kissed Bones and whispered, " _And thus, though we cannot make our sun / stand still, yet we will make him run._ "

Bones swatted his ass. "No more poetry. Doctor's orders. Unless you want to hear some dirty limericks, 'cause that's all I've got."

"That's not all you've got," Jim said, deliberately mistaking his meaning. "You got me. And Joanna. And a whole crew to scowl at and stick with hyposprays. All on one awesome spaceship. You're not so bad off."

He felt the warm curve of Bones's lips against his brow. "I know."

8/08/09


End file.
